


Paving the Road Between Heaven and Hell

by lysanatt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Blood Play, Bondage, D/s, Dirty Talk, Erotic piercing, Exhibitionism, First Time, Fisting, Fuck Or Die, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, M/M, Minor Character Death, Piercing, Public Sex, Ravishment, Rimming, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Sounding, Spanking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 55,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysanatt/pseuds/lysanatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary</b>: It's about good intentions when Balthazar is presented with an ultimatum: in exchange for his life he must enter into an arranged marriage with a citizen of Hell. It's all a part of the new peace treaty between Heaven and Hell, but there is no doubt in Balthazar's mind: he is little more than a disposable hostage. Balthazar, however, hasn't considered that his husband-to-be might disagree. Caught in a whirlwind romance with the King of Hell, Balthazar soon realises that kinky sex, supercars and expensive suits don't last forever. At the bottom line, it is not <i>enough</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rocks and Hard Places

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** : Ravishment, violation of the third commandment, minor character death (demons). Heavy Celine Dion-bashing with complimentary suggested methods of torture.  
>  **Content** : Fluffy, kinky romance. Marry or die scenario. Very rough _consensual_ sex: D/s, spanking, sounding, piercing, implied fisting, hair-pulling, bondage, whipping, plugs, rimming, public sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, mild blood play, dirty talk, slight humiliation. Overuse of brand names, Patrick Bateman style. There is a plot too.
> 
>  **Art** : Art/graphics pinch hit by me, myself, I. Thank you, me. ;0)
> 
>  **Notes** : A few mild spoilers for S8. Going slightly AU after S6. Thanks to xcryin_destinyx for looking this over. Thanks to the wonderful mods over at [Crowley Big Bang](http://crowleybigbang.livejournal.com) for support and encouragement. <3

"It's entirely up to you."

Balthazar glares at Naomi. He doesn't like being contradicted, and he most certainly doesn't like being contradicted by an upstart angel, millennia younger than he. He wonders for a second whether his little sister has been misplaced; he can think of a place a couple of floors down that would suit her most spectacularly. He shifts in the white leather chair, clutching the cool armrest so hard it creaks.

"I have deceased brothers and sisters enough to choose from," Naomi says, surely sensing his reluctance. "If you don't think that three years are enough, being dead, I can send you back into non-existence and pick someone else."

Oh yeah, why doesn't she? At least he doesn't have to deal with a girl half his age, trying to act like his superior. "You do that, I am already having so much fun," Balthazar remarks acerbically. "I really don't think I can take much more."

Right that moment, Balthazar doesn't give a fuck about the fact that Naomi has the punch to revive him. What truly bothers him is that she has the power to disintegrate him. The woman is annoying, her suggestion is annoying and the entire enterprise is annoying. It's almost enough for Balthazar to beg Naomi to send him off so that he doesn't have to deal with her. Then he recalls the taste of a 1945 Mouton-Rothschild, the silk sheets in his usual bed in his usual suite at the Mandarin Oriental. Full English at Pellicci's. A rushed and dirty fuck against a wall. Thomas Hart Benton's art at the Hirshhorn. The perfection of a bespoke suit from his usual tailor. The cold beauty of the summit of Mont Cervin. Life on Earth has so many wonders and pleasures.

And he wants them all.

Damned. He is so screwed. To say it mildly. Screw, bugger, fuck, fuck, fuck! Balthazar truly hates Naomi and he just stepped into her office minutes ago. It doesn't sit well with him that she has any power over him for, by all that's holy, he'd like to kick her bony arse. Hard.

"Or I could," Naomi says, putting her hands together, looking like the sanctimonious little virgin she clearly is, her mouth all prissy and tight, "send you somewhere else. Somewhere more unpleasant. How many years of _My Heart Will Go On_ on repeat do you think you are able to stomach?"

Oh, Christ on a hobbyhorse! Minus a billion? How does the dreadful girl even _know_ about that? He'd have to stab his eardrums with a wooden spoon even before the first encore is over. He glares at the woman in the chair in front of him. How it is possible to be that evil and still be allowed a decent office in Heaven? It is plain wrong. And that says a lot, coming from him, Balthazar knows.

"I could bunk her up with you. Celine Dion. You'd have to wait a few years, it's not her time yet, but I'm sure she'd be elated by the thought of an afterlife with her biggest fan."

Damn the woman to hell because that is obviously a place where she would fit in perfectly. Naomi is not an angel. She can't be. She's Lucifer in disguise. Or perhaps his bitchy, bitter, manipulative sister. "I cannot possibly put into words precisely how much I detest you," Balthazar says. "But I am certainly willing to try. And I've known you for, what? Four minutes?"

"Don't bother. I couldn't care less." Naomi opens a file, looks at it, then looks back up at Balthazar. "You owe us your redemption... It doesn't look good. Stealing Heaven's weapons, ruining the Staff of Moses, conspiring against Heaven's plans... I see a lot of Miss Dion in your immediate future, brother."

"So it's _us_ now?" Balthazar straightens up, looking arrogantly down his nose at the woman on the other side of the desk. He wonders if it is possible to bluff his way out of the deal. "As I recall it, I was a part of this _us_ once. You do realise that I'm an angel, yes?"

"A _fallen_ angel. Yes, you were an angel. A great and honourable soldier, a warrior of Heaven — before you went behind our backs and deserted. Before you stole our weapons. Before you thought you could run your little soul-collecting enterprise on the side. Before you thought your allegiance was something you could change at your leisure." Naomi looks coldly at Balthazar, seconds passing by before she continues. "Now you're a pawn and this is my chessboard. Do as I say, or I'll have you back to surfing the multidimensional wavelengths for eternity. Your choice." Naomi closes the file. "You have yet another four minutes to decide."

Balthazar squirms. He doesn't like the trap he's caught in. Four minutes, one little _no_ and he dies with his pride intact. Or he can bugger all pride, accept the appalling suggestion and live forever. With all the perks that go with it. It should be an easy choice, accepting the deal, but it isn't. "You should get yourself a tailor," he tells Naomi, just because he can, and if he's gone in four, no, three minutes, he'd prefer to have offended the stuck-up little office girl at least once. "I'm sure he'd be able to make your life easier," Balthazar says, smiling sweetly. " I mean, it must be really hard to dress in what you're wearing when your head is so far up your arse that you can see for yourself when you catch laryngitis."

Naomi is in no way fazed. She continues looking like as if she's about to crap in her pants and tries to keep everything in by squeezing her arsehole tight. "Is that a yes or a no? Because, frankly, this is a waste of my time." She folds her hands, looking annoyingly sanctimonious.

Balthazar represses an instant urge to do something very violent.

The tired expression on Naomi's face makes Balthazar feel a bit better, though. He is not willing to admit that he's lost just yet. If he has managed to exhaust the girl, he'd like to enjoy it as long as possible. And since he has all of eighty-seven seconds left to pretend that he isn't being screwed over in a similar number of ways before he gives in, he wants to use them to the fullest. He sits back, silent, sensing the seconds fly by. When there are five left, he studies his nails on the left hand and casually says, "All right. We have a deal."

"Knew you'd see it my way," Naomi says. It annoys Balthazar that it's impossible to trace any triumph or glee in her voice. At least she could have given him that, but she doesn't care. She just sold him to Hell and she doesn't even have the decency to feel bad about it?

"Thirty days. You may choose any method of confirming the union that suits you." She holds out her hand and a scroll appears in it. "The contract. The King of Hell and I have already signed the treaty, securing peace and cooperation between the realms. All we need now is for you to enter into marriage with a demon of his choice. It will be a sign of good faith and friendship between Heaven and Hell. Thirty days, Balthazar, and you must be wedded, bedded and the marriage contract delivered to my office, signed by both you _and_ your future wife."

"Or I'm back on the surfboard." Not even caring to phrase the sentence as a question, Balthazar turns his hand, palm up. He feels a deep satisfaction when Naomi has to stand to hand the contract to him. As he signs the agreement in fluent, elegant Enochian, the only blessed thing about the entire deal is that he will probably never see Naomi again. Small favours.

 

The new Alexander McQueen suit isn't really to Balthazar's liking. Okay, he understands that his usual human tailor can't finish a suit in a day, so he has to endure. He wouldn't want to be found dead in Armani, so McQueen it is. The floral print Paul Smith shirt is acceptable, though, and Balthazar feels almost... Well, _human_ isn't the right term. _Better_. It had been an error, however, to set up the meeting at _Boujis_. The club is noisy, there are too many idiots, and the Champagne is notoriously overpriced; not that it matters, but it annoys Balthazar, just by principle. He brushes a speck of dust off the otherwise impeccably polished black Magnannis before he leans back into the low sofa, sipping a glass of La Grande Dame Rose. The VIP area is half-empty, luckily; it's early still.

Closing his eyes, trying to enjoy the music and the club's luxuriously comfortable furniture, Balthazar wonders what or rather who Hell's going to make him marry. He's had his run-ins with a number of quite disgusting demons through the years and he really doesn't look forward to a marriage of convenience. Mostly because it isn't solely about his convenience. In Balthazar's opinion, Naomi has gone too far in her attempt to save a few souls. Putting an end to the fight between Heaven and Hell by making treaties, letting allies marry for peace? Not on. What the bleeding hell does the woman think garrisons and flame swords are for?

Apart from being apprehensive about his own personal comfort, Balthazar is worried Naomi is making a mistake: nobody in their right mind would have the King of Hell signing a treaty that hasn't been examined for at least six months by the best lawyers in the universe. Who, not entirely by incident, all reside in Hell. Luckily Balthazar isn't too bad a negotiator himself; he needs to come to an understanding with Hell's chosen. Why would a demon wish to spend more time than absolutely necessary in the company of an angel? There is only one possible reply to that answer: a demon wouldn't, and therefore it must be possible to ensure a certain level of separation so that Balthazar can continue the pleasant demon-free lifestyle he'd taken up before he was killed.

Finally able to convince himself that being part of a peace treaty with Hell is somewhat better than not being at all, Balthazar opens his eyes, only to look at a suit that makes the Armani he rejected at Harrods less than five hours ago _and_ the McQueen he's currently wearing look like utter rags. "I usually dress better," is the first thing he says, then adds, "where is my demon?"

"Hello, Balthazar." The King of Hell conjures a crystal flute and pours himself a glass of _La Dame_ before he sits down, uninvited, across the low coffee table. " Nice to meet you. Didn't think you'd be that eager to collect your prize."

Balthazar has never formally met Crowley, but he most certainly has helped put a stop to his plans more than once. He's not sure what to expect from an old enemy. "Oh, I was waiting with baited breath." Balthazar takes yet another sip of the pink Champagne. He'd like to get drunk, but it'd be noticed if he tried, so he gives up, resorting to the small pleasure it is to have a decent glass of wine. "So where is she? You are not dragging a blushing and unwilling girl to the altar with me, are you, Crowley?"

"No. I'm not. This business between me and your... Naomi. It's far too important an agreement to leave up to lesser employees."

" _My_ Naomi?" Balthazar can't stop the bitterness he feels from leaking into his laughter. "Sure she isn't yours? The woman is basically made of evil. How did you even dare strike a deal with her? I certainly hope that your treaty holds, for she is-"

"I might not have lived as long as she, but, hello, King of the Crossroads here. Or formerly King of, rather. Bargaining is what I do. You, of all angels, should be able to appreciate that aspect. That and my suit. Your taste is bordering the tacky for an angel your age. McQueen is very... " Crowley's mouth turns into a prissy little bud, and he looks slightly ill. "Anyway, I was reluctant to enter into this agreement. I haven't really been as trusting since your older brother stabbed me in the back and broke the pact he'd made with me. Not that you are lagging behind in the backstabbing department." Crowley looks appreciative. "So, this treaty I've been rather particular about. No way getting out of it for Naomi. Or for you."

"I'm elated." Balthazar just wants to meet the demon in question, then hurry to negotiate the prenuptial agreement he wants. And then he's getting the hell out of the bloody club so he can return to his old mansion and do whatever the fuck he likes, including but not limited to drinking Champagne and ordering an entirely new wardrobe of tailor-made clothes. Unfortunately Crowley's right: McQueen is a bit tacky. "Could we get on with it? It isn't as if I don't have anything else to do. So, get me my demon, if you please."

"The treaty doesn't say that it has to be a demon as such, only that it has to be a citizen of Hell." Crowley looks very satisfied and it makes Balthazar nervous. Naomi clearly has no idea who she is bargaining with.

"And you conjured up what instead? A Hellhound?" Balthazar pulls out his copy of the scroll and skims it as fast as only an angel can. "It says that my intended has to be 'of human appearance'. Without caring to look for it, he knows that it also mentions that his spouse has to be a sentient being. "Also she needs to be of human, or similar intellectual capacity. As a bare minimum," Balthazar points out.

"You and I," Crowley says, "have never been on the best terms. You are too much like me: an opportunistic, backstabbing bastard. I like that. Your horrible taste in clothes, however..."

"And?" Tired of the detours, Balthazar doesn't care to be even the least polite. "Try to guess exactly how many fucks I don't give. Get on with it, man."

"I found it most convenient to send someone who'd be able to keep an eye on you. Challenge you. Keep you busy. You've buggered up my plans one time too many, Balthazar."

"Lovely. And I care because..."

"Because your darling Naomi sold you into a marriage between Heaven and Hell?"

"Oh, I'm surprised. Didn't know that. Except I have here thirty feet of sodding contract that describes the hows, the whys, whens and wheres. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get to _who_."

"Me," Crowley says with the most annoying, self-satisfied expression known to man, angels _and_ , probably, demons.

"No," Balthazar retorts coldly, too baffled to show any surprise. "Under no circumstances whatsoever."

"Unfortunately, Balthazar, the right to choose is no longer a luxury you are allowed." Crowley looks so satisfied with himself that Balthazar, a relatively peaceful and gentle angel of the Lord (at least if he's to say so himself), is very, very close to punching the King of Hell on the mouth. Anything that removes the self-satisfied smirk on his face. "It's me or no one. Naomi kindly let slip the information that I should remind you of a certain Miss Dion to ensure your full cooperation."

Balthazar decides to take his time despite the obvious urgency. He pours himself a glass and drinks half of it before he puts it back down on the table. He needs to think fast; to find a way out. Problem is that there is none. Exactly as Crowley says, he doesn't have a choice, not really. Finally Balthazar asks the question that he needs to know the answer for. "You planned this?"

Crowley's smirk grows. "Yes. Or rather I took the opportunity to ensure the continued happiness and contentment of my citizens below when the opportunity was suggested to me. I didn't come up with the idea. I merely ensured that both the treaty and the marriage alliance are beneficial to me."

"Screw you." There is sod all to do about the disaster that is the marriage contract, then. Crowley surely made the contract waterproof. It's what he does. "Why? Why me? How can you believe for a moment that I'd want to marry a bug like you? I could find a more attractive spouse under a rock. Explain to me why I am so interesting."

"For an angel of the Lord, you have a remarkably filthy mouth," Crowley sidesteps elegantly. "You haven't been around for the main events. It hasn't been fun. Leviathan, Purgatory, disappearing tablets... it just doesn't stop," Crowley says. He relaxes a bit, reaching for the bottle, "I have a very beneficial enterprise going on downstairs, Balthazar. I have Hell sorted out the way I like it. Took me a bit of time cleaning up after the mess Castiel left me. So, back to no messy torture, no brimstone and fires, no smell of burning flesh. Order. Neat, practical, quiet, systematic _order_. More or less maintenance-free." Crowley turns his glass, looking at the bubbles. "By making this peace treaty with Heaven, I simply made absolutely certain that no angel is going to mess up my kingdom again. You know... a more open relationship, exchange of information, yada, yada, yada. A decent split in percentage, first dibs on souls if there are some that your bosses want upstairs. In return for Heaven's support when it comes to keeping Hell clean, of course. No more fighting."

"And Naomi?"

"Securing her power base. Since she's officially the one who made Heaven and Hell come to a peaceful understanding, she'll be much harder to remove from the spot she's taken for herself. Terribly opportunistic of her, wouldn't you say?"

Balthazar understands. He can see what Naomi tries to do. But Balthazar knows enough about Crowley to know who will come out the winner in the end. Crowley is too good a businessman to give more than he gains, and Balthazar isn't in doubt that the one who is gaining the most from the treaty will be Crowley. Still, the King of Hell still hasn't answered Balthazar's most pressing question. "Fearing that I'm repeating myself here," Balthazar says sarcastically, "I would like to know how I got into the equation."

Crowley studies the well-manicured nails of his right hand. "Because I thought you'd be slightly more tolerable and a tad more intelligent than the rest of your brothers and sisters."

"Sweet. This is getting bothersome. Why?"

"I wasn't lying when I said it's too important an agreement to let loose just any demon and let it take care of the relationship between Heaven and Hell. I had to do it myself." Crowley stops looking at his hands and looks instead at Balthazar. "I don't suffer fools well, Balthazar, and I don't suffer righteous angels, either. A marriage is for eternity. It's a very, very long time if I were to endure hourly sermons and around the clock holier-than-thou attitude. A bit like you wouldn't endure the torture that is Celine Dion on a daily basis."

Unfortunately Crowley's right. "Celine Dion doing sermons and singing psalms," Balthazar suggests. "That'd be worse. Hell, to be precise. Feel free to use the tip downstairs when you get your hands on the banshee."

"Good Lord, you're evil. I don't understand how you ever endured that sanctimonious lot you hang out with." Crowley laughs. "Audio torture? That is truly cruel. Inspired, if I may say so." Crowley purses his lips, thinking for a moment. "If she ends up downstairs, I _could_ let you have a go at cutting her tongue out on, like every other Wednesday, and have her eat it. Despite the mess it'd make."

"You'd let me?" Balthazar _loves_ the idea. He tries to rein in the utter glee he feels at the thought. Not very angelic, to say it mildly, but they are talking Celine Dion, the voice of evil, the Metatron of Lucifer and all hell-spawn combined. "You'd really use her to sing to the souls?" Personally, Balthazar would rather puncture his eardrums with a knitting needle than to hear one note from the depths of Miss Dion's unappealing chest.

"They say it's a good idea for spouses to share a hobby. Makes married life better. I could assist you; I'm not fond of the woman, either. You know, a great brunch: Champagne, a quality Papua New Guinea AA coffee, fruit, organic eggs and sausages. Then a bit of torture if you're up to it. If not, we can just gag her or cut off her tongue and be done with it for the day." Crowley looks almost as if he's looking forward to it. "So many other interesting things we could do together. Getting you a decent suit, for instance. You should try my tailors. They're brilliant. Savile Row, obviously. Anderson & Sheppard. Sheppard the younger. I assume you are aware that some of my enemies ate the older one. Very inconvenient."

Balthazar shakes his head, annoyed to have his attire critiqued once more. Unfortunately Crowley's impeccable suit lends a bit of weight to the criticism. "I've had my suits made by Anderson & Sheppard since I escaped the 'sanctimonious lot', as you so eloquently describe my brethren. And I had a perfectly decent attire before Castiel ruined it by piercing it — and me — with an angel blade. This," Balthazar waves a hand, indicating that he is talking about the McQueen he is wearing, "was all I could get on a few hours' notice. As for Messrs Anderson and Sheppard, they're tailors, not wizards. They couldn't possibly finish a suit in three hours. And I assume that you appreciate that I didn't turn up naked."

Crowley coughs. 'Oh, I wouldn't complain, precisely. About you being naked." He looks at Balthazar, letting his eyes slide downwards. "You're not an eyesore."

"Is that so?" Balthazar can't decide whether he feels flattered or the opposite. "You do realise that my vessel is male?"

"I most certainly do. Good choice. Definitely appealing." Crowley raises an eyebrow. "You're not homophobic, are you?"

"Hardly. I was just about getting to explore that side of things when Castiel found it appropriate to penetrate me with a sword, pun intended. I have only patience for so many female fashion models. Ironically, Castiel beat me to the testing, I think, now that we speak of him. A frightening thought, isn't it, that he might have tried something I haven't? He's got it for the older Winchester, I believe."

"Doesn't he? Have you seen how Castiel looks at him?" Crowley shakes his head. "Those boys... the Winchesters. They're horrible, but good looking. Moose... he's certainly not bad. I dislike him, but I appreciate the view. Like them tall and slender. But _God_ , the maintenance. Sam Winchester is for advanced use only. No wonder Lucifer wanted him so badly. They'd drive each other insane within a month. More insane, that is." Grabbing the bottle of Champagne, refilling it with the wave of a hand, Crowley pours for the both of them. "So, Dean... You're interested? Since you begrudge Castiel his... relationship with him?"

Balthazar laughs loudly. The thought is hilarious. "Not in this lifetime. Any lifetime. Dean does have a certain roguish charm, though." The two Winchesters are indeed some of his father's better work. Handsome both, bright, but damned annoying. Horrible dressers too. "As soon as Castiel gets himself out of that awful coat he's wearing, he'd actually look good enough to make Dean realise what he's being offered. Cas is a fool; he could have taken the boy ages ago. As for your question, no, I'm not on the market for anything Dean Winche-"

"You're not on the market at all, love," Crowley interrupts. "From now on you'll have to make do with little old me. Yes, I'm evil and the King of Hell. But I do have principles and one of them is not to have a husband who fucks around without my explicit permission. A permission, mind, which he — that'd be you — will never get." Crowley reaches across the table and slides a finger slowly down Balthazar's arm. "But I doubt I'll give you reason to complain."

It makes Balthazar shiver. Disgust or anticipation, he's not sure. "Crowley!"

"Thirty days from now and you'll be mine, angel."

"Or I can take the easy way out and ask Naomi to find someone who'd actually want to become your bitch." Balthazar raises an eyebrow, looking coldly at Crowley. It's a challenge. However, the attempt at assembling his shattered pride isn't going so well. Balthazar knows it's not an option, dying. He loves being alive far too much. He loves all the pleasures that come with it. Designer clothes, wine, good food, music, parties, women, although those certainly aren't a possibility any longer. Crowley is strangely possessive and Balthazar isn't sure why, but he appreciates it.

Balthazar studies Crowley, all of him. The sturdy body, the short crop that makes Crowley look rather good instead of boring and middle-aged with the receding hairline. The dark eyes — those are perhaps Crowley's best feature. That and the low, raspy voice. Balthazar likes the voice. Rough and soft at the same time, and with hidden promises of filth whispered in his ear when Crowley fucks...

Oh, dear Father! Balthazar takes a deep breath, utterly unnecessary; it just feels calming to think of the intake of air, the slow exhale, instead of having one's mind filled with sudden and unwelcome thoughts of sex with the King of Hell. _Thirty days and he'll be Crowley's_. The obvious possessiveness does things to Balthazar's throat, making him feel as if he actually needs air.

The music is thudding, a deep bass, a heavy rhythm that makes its way to Balthazar's groin. Crowley squints as if he knows where Balthazar's mind is going. "You don't have to decide today, Balthazar." Crowley's eyes are velvet, compassionate. "I know it isn't easy for you. You weren't really given a choice when Naomi dragged you back here." Crowley looks serious. "Perhaps it will make it easier for you to know that I inquired about you when the treaty was mentioned to me. It was brought it to my attention that it was possible to revive you; that you'd be a perfect fit for me, although I knew that already. So I did ask for _you_ , not for any random angel with a good-looking vessel. I thought perhaps that you'd enjoy the pleasures of life that I, too, prefer to the doom and gloom of celestial intrigue."

The centuries Crowley spent as a crossroads demon aren't wasted. Clearly empathy works for Crowley: he could sell salt to Lot, that's for sure. Balthazar can't defend himself. Compassion, understanding and desire? Crowley makes Balthazar want to agree, to see sense in what he's offered. Crowley is damned good at what he does. Balthazar isn't that easy, he's trying not to be. He straightens his back, refusing to fall into Crowley's trap. "Are you going anywhere with that or do I need to stretch my patience further? Nice try, though."

Crowley laughs. "That's what I get for choosing you. Resistance. I like it. So, what do you say, angel? Let's get out of here, let's find a decent whisky and a nice place to drink it. Then we negotiate like proper... erm- you know..."

"Like proper angels and demons. Yes, that usually goes so well. But anything for God, king and country as they say..."

Crowley shrugs. "Damned Tories. Couldn't have been more precise myself." He holds out his hand. "If you'll allow me?"

"Depends. Where are we going?" Balthazar hesitates for a second, then thinks the better of it and allows Crowley to take his arm. It's hard to fight a destiny that is set in stone already.

"Had enough of London for tonight? What about Dublin? Or Berlin?"

"Dublin. Whiskey instead of whisky? Mulligan's. Not the old overrun one, the one in Stoneybatter." The best place to get a decent drink in the entire republic, in Balthazar's opinion.

"I love Mulligan's," Crowley says, his face contracted in anticipatory pleasure. "Their black pudding! Mm, mm, mm!"

"Remarkably refined taste for a demon," Balthazar says sarcastically and wrinkles his nose. "As long as I don't have to take any. Too much blood."


	2. At the Crossroads

The smell of fried food is mouthwatering and Balthazar imagines how it must feel be to hungry. He doesn't have to be hungry, however, to enjoy the smell of the well-cooked meals the staff makes. They find two seats near the window and Crowley goes to order food. Balthazar leans back in the old chair, the leather worn soft by decades of use. It's like silk under his fingers. He caresses the leather distractedly, trying to make sense of what is happening to him.

He can stop the deal, of course, if he wants to, call the whole thing off, reverse into not being, only that option is so horribly destructive to what Balthazar loves most: himself. Balthazar looks at Crowley at the bar. Married to a former enemy? Balthazar isn't sure it's a very good idea. He never liked Crowley for obvious reasons, Hell-spawn, demon, evil, blah, blah, blah. 

Only Crowley, at a brief second glance, isn't so bad. Well, he is, but he's also good company. He is good looking and his tastes clearly run along Balthazar's own. Good food. Good clothes. Good life. And Crowley's ideas about how to dispose of Miss Dion? It makes Balthazar feel a little bit warm and fuzzy inside that the King of Hell would go to such lengths to ensure his happiness. Also Crowley seems to have no problem fluctuating between good and evil. Balthazar knows that he, too, can't be entirely good or entirely bad; life simply becomes much more interesting when one refuses to be a singularity when it comes to moral. Of course Crowley's default setting is bad, but Balthazar can sense that there is still something left of what little humanity Crowley once had. Whether it's enough to make a relationship with a morally ambiguous angel work, that remains yet to be seen.

The pub is not full, and Crowley quickly returns with a bottle of Knappogue Castle and two glasses. "I prefer thirty year old Craig, but I think the occasion calls for something extraordinary."

"1951? How the hell?" Balthazar looks at the bottle in awe. "You're a man of many talents, Crowley."

"Again, crossroads demon. Former. I know how to negotiate a good deal." He pours a healthy amount for both of them." _Sláinte_."

Balthazar takes a sip. The taste of ripe bananas and apricots is overwhelming. "Damn you, Crowley," is all he can say. If this is how it's going to be, Crowley being able to provide this kind of luxury... Balthazar is selfish enough to ignore his pride which is beginning to look suspiciously as if it's falling apart at the seams. Luxury for marriage? Balthazar doesn't know whether he can do it, become a whore for the King of Hell. All right, so it's an arranged marriage which _per se_ doesn't make him a whore, nobody has demanded of him that he goes to bed with Crowley. The entire deal just makes him feel a bit like one.

Marriage, or whatever it is Heaven and Hell are going to call it, has never been an option for Balthazar until now. He is an angel and angels don't usually marry, although it's not unheard of. But they never marry into loveless marriages with high-ranking demons. Only now Balthazar has to. And unfortunately marriage, to Balthazar's limited understanding, usually does include love at some point. Not really in the cards with the King of Hell. Balthazar takes yet another sip of the Irish whiskey and sighs deeply.

"It's good, isn't it?" Crowley smirks and looks entirely too happy as if he knows exactly how to undermine Balthazar's defences. The whiskey's perfect and Crowley _knows_ it.

The marriage offer is like the bottle of Knappogue. One sip and one wants more. It's alluring. But stripping the deal of alliance and benefits and the entire being-alive perk leaves him with one important question: is there any chance that he will come to love Crowley? Is there any possibility that Crowley will fall in love? Is the King of Hell able to love at all? It looks a bit hopeless. Balthazar is set up to be the loser in this game between upstairs and downstairs; he'll be caught in a comfortable cage for eternity.

"Balthazar?" Crowley's dark eyes are firmly set on Balthazar, maybe he's been staring for a while.

Defeat is not the most encouraging feeling in the world. It drizzles down Balthazar's neck like cold rain, making him slouch a bit."Yeah."

"Say, if you just allow yourself to consider the possibility that I wouldn't have asked you to marry me if I didn't think it'd be beneficial for both of us. That's why I am always successful in negotiations: a deal needs to have two winners, one way or another."

And therein lies the problem for Balthazar. Suddenly it becomes too much. Contrary to common belief, Balthazar is not without need for love and he won't treat a marriage solely as a business transaction. Or rather he would, but he can't. "I am not in this for business and pleasure alone, Crowley," Balthazar says, thinking about how to go on from there. He wonders if he will ever be able to trust Crowley. "I'm an angel. You are maybe doing this for the alliance," he says, cradling the glass of whisky, looking into the golden liquor, "but marriage... It's for eternity. How can we do this for- _bloody_ -ever if that's all it's ever going to be? Business. I... " Balthazar looks up, lost. "Without love?"

Crowley frowns. "You're actually a romantic?" he says, looking honestly surprised. "Balthazar, really?"

"So? I _am_ an angel. We thrive on love." Balthazar collects the tatters of his shattered dignity. "But you... "

"I'm human enough to remember how good it feels. Human enough to want it, still, despite everything. Like you, I strive for self-preservation, and in this case — our case — I did try to make the inevitable pleasant. To keep my kingdom I need this deal, Balthazar. I need Heaven's support so that I don't have to deal with rogue demons or angels trying to mess up my little venture. My reward for that, my gift to myself, you might say, was that I chose someone with whom I might have a chance for a good life. As you said earlier, forever is a very long time."

"You're actually being honest." Balthazar frowns and takes a sip of whiskey, enjoying the kick and the slow burn. "That's interesting. So what do you suggest?"

"What do you think would annoy the little girl upstairs the most, hm?" Crowley smirks. "That this turns out to be a great relationship? That I am able to make you happy? That we fall in love? My guess is that the stupid bint is congratulating herself on the misery she's bestowed on us both, and by all that's unholy, I'd love to rub in her face that she made us both happy instead."

"The King of Hell talking about happy relationships? That's so comforting. And believable. Or maybe you have another interpretation of 'happy' than the one people commonly use?" Balthazar doesn't know what to believe.

"I'm a practical man. I am manipulative, arrogant and evil, I admit that. In fact, I'm proud of it. As for my former relationships..." Crowley snorts. "Let's not go there. What I'm saying is that our connection might benefit _me_ first and foremost. I am, however, sure the benefits will be so much bigger if we actually like each other; if we both want to be together. Why not give it a chance? Let's try to make it work. We have thirty days. We have time to try it on for size."

"I see hook, line and sinker," Balthazar says, wondering how much he resembles a cod, ready to bite. "We take a test drive, and then you'll let me decide?"

"Stunning deduction abilities. Yes. That is more or less what I suggest. Let's see where it takes _us_ , and then _we_ decide."

"You really think you can make me fall in love with you? Well, why be modest?" Balthazar laughs bitterly. "Doesn't seem like a fair deal to me. If you're looking for a love-sick puppy-"

"I'm looking for an _equal_ , you fool." Crowley actually looks offended. "I don't mind falling in love, although being so stupidly infatuated as that annoying brother of yours and the older Winchester? That will never happen. The idiots haven't even realised it yet, that they're in love. I, on the other hand, have a functioning brain. I'll know." He grins, boyishly charming. "What I like about you is that I think you'll allow me to continue the close relationship with the love of my life on the side." Crowley turns his thumb towards his chest. "Me."

It isn't as if Balthazar doesn't understand that point of view. He has a similar primary interest: himself. It was his instinct for survival that had made him flee from Heaven in the first place. Not very angelic, now that one thinks of it. Increasingly intrigued, Balthazar leans forward, putting the glass down on the table. He looks at Crowley intently, wanting him to tell the truth. "If I agree, will you promise me something in return? No deal, no contract, nothing but your word? Even if there is nothing in it for you?"

Crowley stares at him for some time, his eyes calm. He doesn't flinch. "Yes."

"Like that? Yes? Are you sure you're well?" Balthazar considers that there might more to Crowley than what meets the eye. It hasn't been that long since the King of Hell was human. Could be that it actually makes a difference.

"Unfortunately, Balthazar, trust might be an issue we need to work on. Both of us. I wouldn't want any misunderstandings between us. And with you, sweetheart, misunderstandings lead to casting of messy spells and unappealing demon traps painted on my furniture. Either case, I won't have it."

"I simply love that your answers are short and to the point. Was that a yes or a no?"

"Yes, I am well, and yes, ask the damned favour, Balthazar!" Crowley's voice rises above the noise of the crowd and a few faces turn their way. "You may not get another chance for a free ride."

"All right. Never lie to me. About anything. That's all I ask."

Crowley lets out a bark of laughter. "That's all? But of course." He shakes his head as if in denial. "Balthazar, that is what I do. Lie. Mislead. Manipulate. And you ask me, the head of evil, to be _honest_ with you?"

"So? That's my condition. I can ask whatever the hell I like! Again, I'm an angel. You might want to look it up if you are not aware what it implies." Balthazar knows that he isn't a very good angel, but an angel he is, nevertheless, and he will not fall into the embrace of pure evil. If a relationship with a former foe is going to work, even for a thirty day trial, there are limits to what Balthazar will stand for. Being lied to is not an option. "Angel. A-n-g-"

Crowley doesn't look pleased. "I assume you're on about the righteousness and being the messenger of God and all that bullshit? Or is it about the time when you unsank the Titanic? Or the multitude of young models you were doing in Paris? Your wonderful impersonation of Judas? Now, _that_ was a beautiful set of lies. Or is there something else entirely about angels that I have yet to discover?"

"Let he who is without si-"

Crowley points accusingly at Balthazar. " _Don't_ even think of finishing that sentence. Or I'll wring your neck."

"Comforting. You should work on your dirty talk, demon. Somehow talk about my immediate death is quite the turn-off, just so you know."

"And your turn-ons?" Crowley raises one eyebrow; suddenly mirth is shining in his eyes. "You could tell me about those instead."

Balthazar mirrors the eyebrow. Crowley surely is a pervert. He's a demon. He has to be a pervert which in itself is rather promising. "You're avoiding the subject. Let's get back to the point where you swear that you won't lie to me or mislead me."

"Do they have more pliant angels upstairs? Can I return you? I could corrupt one of the younger angels, you know. One of the quiet ones. Inias, perhaps. He's pretty."

"Too late for that, _sweetheart_ ," Balthazar purrs. "I'm beginning to like you. Especially when you are bit uncomfortable. Like now." Balthazar clings to the tiny loose thread that he'd pulled free of Crowley's defence. "Lies, Crowley. Yes or no?"

Blowing out a stream of air in a deep sigh, Crowley nods. "I assume that goes with the trust. Yes. I swear I won't lie to you." His face contracts in displeasure. "I begin to wonder who comes out on top in this relationship. At least it won't be boring finding out."

"It's not a war. It's an arranged marriage." Balthazar cannot help smirking, satisfied with the way he's got a good grip around Crowley's bollocks. "Let's talk options, then."

"Nothing says I love you like driving a hard bargain." Crowley makes a face. "Again, I fear who's coming out on top."

"Oh, you can be on top if you like," Balthazar teases, satisfied that he made Crowley budge. "As long as you do what I tell you to do." Then Balthazar realises where he's letting their conversation go. Luckily the landlord signals that their food is ready. "I'll get that," Balthazar volunteers, happy to get a reprieve. Crowley probably wouldn't let it go otherwise. Rumour has it that Crowley does have a strong interest in things below the waist.

The food is delicious; decent traditional food with modern twist. Crowley is digging into a piece of black pudding with pickled rhubarb and pesto and Balthazar enjoys his leek and mushroom pie. A pint of decent stout to go with the rich food doesn't make matters worse.

Balthazar makes an orgasmic sound at the taste of the mash that comes with his pie. The tinge of lemon zest is perfect. "Oh, this is good."

"Isn't that what it's all about?" Crowley says, swallowing yet another bite of pudding. "Enjoying the pleasures of life on Earth? Which reminds me... the two plaid-clad plagues managed to have my house burned down to the ground when their plan backfired; it needs a bit of refurbishing before it's habitable. Probably with an excavator. We could go to a decent hotel instead. Or to Hell. It's nice there, although I'd probably be swamped with work, and you'd be restricted to certain areas."

"Excuse me?" Balthazar puts his fork down and glares at Crowley. He can't be serious? Other angels, like his hopeless big brother, have been caged in Hell, and despite the talk about trust, Balthazar is not going to fall for that one. He'd never let Crowley drag him anywhere near the cage; there is no reason to present a temptation to one who'd willingly fall into it if it suited his purposes.

"You do have a reputation. Wouldn't want you roaming free in Hell without proper supervision."

"And of course I'd want to go there with you. Under supervision. Of course. Awesome." Balthazar pours himself another glass of whiskey. This is suddenly not going too well. He downs the content, and puts the glass back on the table before he manages to collect himself enough to speak to Crowley again. "Yes... where were we? Oh, in Hell. Instead of returning to my comfortable mansion. Clearly. Seeing that previous encounters between angels and demons have been so friendly. I think not."

"I am the bloody _king_ , you moron. What did you think? That I'd go to Heaven with you and live in those odd little pieces of reality you manage to conjure up for people there? It'll be over my dead body, and as things stand I care very much about that, or what's left of it after Castiel and the Winchesters had their way with the remains. No, my darling bride-to-be, that is not going to hap-" Crowley interrupts himself. "You have a mansion?"

"No, I lied and invented one for the occasion. It's cheaper that way." Balthazar is getting irritated. "Yes, I have a mansion. And before you get any more creative I am neither going to Heaven, nor to Hell; not until the relations between the realms have settled. Before I died, both sides were hunting me, you and Castiel both. So excuse me for not having a death wish, Crowley. It should be quite obvious that I'd prefer neutral ground, even for you. And seeing that I let myself be lured into this awkward situation I'd like to see if the alliance you and Naomi whipped up is actually going to work before I leave Earth for another destination."

"What about our deal? About our relationship?" It's surprising that Crowley insists that it's not all about contracts and agreements. "The alliance that _we_ have made, you and I. The one that doesn't concern Naomi? We're in this together. Wasn't that the general idea? That we work on it? That we try to make it work? It's alliance, yes, and it provides _me_ with safety from various coup attempts and it saves _you_ from being tortured by singing. The treaty and the marriage contract are tools, Balthazar. Weapons of defence. But the price for it is too high if we don't both gain from them. If we don't both feel content with," Crowley waves a hand, indicating the both of them, "being us. Together."

Balthazar wishes he could believe Crowley. "You are contradicting yourself," he argues, pointing accusingly at Crowley. "You have just suggested that I'd be kept as a prisoner in Hell, and you want me to believe that it's a question of _us_?" Balthazar gets up. He's had it. He needs to be alone, needs pause to think. He is so used to be the one to outwit others, but Crowley is certainly on par with him. It doesn't help that the damned demon is charming and intelligent as well. Balthazar is confused and torn, feeling as if he is losing his footing. He needs to find it before Crowley gets the better of him for good. He has to leave before he does something infinitely stupid. Like throwing himself at Crowley. Crowley's confidence and the fact that he doesn't bow down to him do strange things to Balthazar, or more specifically, to his the butterflies in his stomach. It's annoying to let go of something that piques his interest. After being alive for millennia, little does. But pride can be sold too cheaply and Balthazar's pride is not on the market. Not any longer. "Goodbye, Crowley."

Balthazar decides not to return to his mansion. It has been empty for three years anyway. Dublin Merrion's penthouse suite would be more comfortable and with less spiders. He snaps his fingers to move himself to the hotel of choice. As he disappears in between places something pulls at his jacket. Only when he steps into the Merrion's lobby, he is alone.


	3. Getting into the Game

Soaking in the hot tub on the private roof terrace, Balthazar is resting comfortably, his head on a pile of soft towels, a glass of decent Bordeaux in one hand. He is relaxing, blessedly free of demons and angels alike. The meeting with Crowley was a bit too surreal for it to be to Balthazar's liking. He needs to use some time thinking about what goes on, about who he can trust. First of all he needs to consider his most important task: staying alive. Balthazar doesn't know Naomi well enough to know what to expect from her. She is, from what Balthazar has seen, not likely to show him any mercy. If he doesn't marry Crowley, he's going be hunted by the Host of Heaven when the month comes to an end. He'll be able to escape, surely, at least for a couple of years, but inevitably he'll be found and killed.

If he marries Crowley, he has earned his life and Crowley will probably be the only one to hunt him if he decides to flee from the unwanted relationship with the King of Hell. There will be no negotiation of the terms of their union; Crowley seems determined that they are to have a real marriage. The good thing is that Naomi probably won't care. There is of course the problem that Balthazar can't actively do anything that turns Heaven against the two of them. That defies the entire purpose of his sacrifice. It is still a situation he can work with, though. Fleeing from Crowley is vastly preferable to fleeing from the Host. He has enough contraband he can sell, buying himself time and bodyguards, keeping Crowley at a distance. Of the two possibilities, death or Crowley, the latter ensures Balthazar's survival, and he is quite intent on staying alive. So no matter what, he needs to marry Crowley to get the celestial garrisons off his back.

Congratulating himself with his resolution, Balthazar downs the Bordeaux in one go, then heats up the water in the tub a tad just by thinking of it, just because he can. The night is cool and starry and there are definitely worse things than lying in a gigantic wooden tub, hot water bubbling pleasantly while one looks into the sky. With the most important decision made, Balthazar takes his time thinking of the man he's supposed to take as his husband. Crowley isn't just a demon. He was human once, a man, male. With a dick. It's not really a problem. Except Balthazar has never been with a man. Too little time. In his attempt to try every sinful pleasure that Earth and humans offer, he didn't really manage. A bit caught up in Paris and in a multitude of fashion models, _female_ fashion models, he had his hands full. Until now. And when it comes to sex, it is something he's going to have with Crowley or not at all. Crowley isn't pretty, but he's sexy in a rough, crude way that Balthazar likes. Crowley is strong and it turns Balthazar on, thinking of the implications if that strength is used to its fullest.

The conversation he just had with Crowley was different from what he'd expected, not that Balthazar knows exactly what he'd expect from a conversation about marriage with the King of Hell. Crowley is a more complex being than Balthazar had imagined. He's not at all troubled by Crowley's selfishness; he suffers from it himself and understands it. It's more surprising that a high-ranking demon such as Crowley deep down harbours positive feelings like compassion and need for love. He's a businessman, yes, but he's... Balthazar really doesn't know how to describe him. 'Surprising' might be the best term. Balthazar thinks that he might want to give _them_ a chance before he disappears. By denying it he might miss out on something interesting.

As for the businessman-part, angels and demons alike know that a deal with Crowley is a deal. He never tries to get out of a contract, but sticks to the agreement, word for word. There is usually always a paragraph somewhere that hands victory to Crowley anyway, but he doesn't cheat. Crowley is in that regard honest to a fault. What it says on the package is what you get. Not Crowley's fault if one fails to read the small print. Balthazar knows that he needs to be very, very careful. Despite his own talents, dealing in the black market and at crossroads, Crowley is just that much better.

Crowley's promise, however, that he'll never lie to Balthazar... _that_ he believes. Crowley wouldn't have sworn if he didn't mean it. Trust is necessary if their marriage is going to work, Crowley understands that too. If Balthazar can ask Crowley anything, knowing the answer will be truthful, he can do it. He can try doing what Crowley suggests; try to get the best out of something that is basically a business transaction for the involved parties. If he stays, the worst that can happen is that they actually do fall into a decent relationship. Maybe even in love.

Which in itself is quite bad. Balthazar has seen how crazy love makes people and angels alike. Lucifer. Castiel. Falling in love with the King of Hell? Pure madness.

He pours himself some more Bordeaux. The minimal buzz the wine leaves is pleasant. Balthazar lets his thoughts drift from the annoyance of making decisions to the more interesting thoughts about how it will be to give himself up to Crowley. Rumour has it, as far as Balthazar is informed, that Crowley became a demon for a few extra inches below the belt. His current vessel might not be his original one, but Crowley, if it is true that he sold his soul for a big dick, surely has tried the current one on for size. Whether it's a good thing or a bad, Balthazar doesn't have experience enough to decide. It does make his own dick throb and stir, though, when he tries to imagine how it must feel, being touched and opened and taken, being held down, having a huge cock pushed inside. Without realising it, Balthazar's fingers have found their way between his spread legs, the tips pressing against his opening.

 _Bloody hell_! Balthazar jerks, the water sloshing over the rim of the tub as he sits up, breathing heavily. What was he thinking? His arousal is a warm buzz of need and expectation, heavy enough to make him confused. It isn't that Balthazar hasn't been aroused before; he likes pretty things and French models are very pretty. But not even during his orgies with half a dozen girls or two has he felt like this. He's not sure how he got there, half-hard by the thought of a damned demon for whom he'd held little but contempt until a few hours ago. He has no idea how it happened that he is suddenly aroused by the thought of being fucked hard by a man he doesn't even care about. It might be because Crowley didn't back down, didn't let Balthazar get away with his usual bullshitting, didn't hide what he wanted. Crowley had been all strength and will and determination and it turns Balthazar on that Crowley actually desires him enough to include him in a deal between Hell and Heaven.

It's about power.

Crowley has it and Balthazar likes it. He more than likes it. It makes him aroused and weak to think of how one of Heaven's most powerful adversaries is lusting over him. That's power, too, and Crowley has handed it to him, just like that, by admitting that he wants them to be together, that he wants their marriage to work. That he chose Balthazar for this, making Naomi revive him because he wanted Balthazar, not any random angel offered to him.

If Crowley wanted powerful he could have asked for Castiel. If he wanted pliant he could have taken any angel from one of the garrisons, obedient little soldiers without free will. If he wanted wise, he could have asked for Joshua. If he wanted pretty he could have asked for Inias. Cute, and Samandriel had been a perfect fit. But Crowley hadn't asked for them. He'd asked for Balthazar.

Balthazar wraps his hand around his erection, stroking it languidly, leaning back against the tub once more. He tilts his head, resting it on the pile of soft towels. He closes his eyes, imagining that Crowley is touching him, watching his expression change from calm strength to wanton need. "Fuck, yes," Balthazar groans, squeezing his bollocks quite harshly before he reaches down, pressing two fingers against his hole. He spreads his legs, again wondering how it will feel when a man is lying on top of him, ready to push into his willing arse. His arsehole twitches involuntarily, and he pushes a finger inside, moaning softly at the light pressure. "Mmm, Crowley," he sighs, the name slipping out before he can even think of holding it back. "Yeah, like that."

"Room service. Anything I can do for you, sweetheart?"

 _Fuck_! Balthazar flinches, embarrassed, but he schools his expression, refusing to let Crowley see that he is. He takes a deep and unnecessary breath and opens his eyes, forcing himself to spread his legs wider. He has nothing to be embarrassed about, he tells himself. He has no reason to blush for being aroused by power or for fantasising about the man he is supposed to marry. On the contrary. Balthazar raises his eyes, looking directly at Crowley. He doesn't ask how Crowley found him; he'd felt that tug when the teleported, somehow Crowley had managed to follow or track him. It doesn't matter, not now. What matters is to get the upper hand.

"There's a lot you can do for me," Balthazar whispers, barely loud enough not to be drowned out by the sound of the hot tub. He thrusts slowly into his own hand, breathing heavily. "I'm sure you can imagine what I'm thinking of." Balthazar gets the satisfaction of seeing Crowley looking slightly rattled before the King of Hell leans forward, both hands resting on the edge of the wooden tub.

"Say that I can't," Crowley says in a similarly low voice, a velvet sound that almost tangibly snakes its way across Balthazar's wet skin. "Perhaps you should tell me? Perhaps I'd like to see your beautiful lips stained with filthy words. Perhaps, if you're really good at it, I might reward you instead of punishing you for leaving me like you did."

Balthazar lets out a deep moan, as if the arousal that surges through him needs an outlet right that instant. Crowley's sultry sensuality is everything he _never_ dreamed of, but wants anyway. All sorts of repressed, forgotten urges suddenly surface, leaving Balthazar shivering and harder than he has ever been. Crowley has issued a challenge, and Balthazar is not one to step down from it. "What makes you think that your punishment won't feel like a reward to me?" Balthazar says, his eyes heavy-lidded with lust. He licks his lips, sliding a hand over his stomach, over his chest. He leaves it there, fingertips over one nipple. "What makes you think I won't like it?"

The moment the words are out he knows that they are true. A truth he's never considered, mostly because tiny Paris models rarely punish anybody or play with that sort of power-exchanges. The sort of power game Crowley and he has been playing since the moment they met, Balthazar realises. He thinks he would like it very much, giving himself up to the special brand of pleasure that Crowley is offering. It's different and new and interesting. Balthazar isn't sure that the King of Hell might be the right person to experiment with, what with all the torture going on in Hell, but Balthazar is willing to try.

A light flickers in Crowley's eyes. Need, arousal, desire, Balthazar can't say. But interest, yes. Surprise, too. Good. He can certainly work with that.

Pursing his mouth, as if he's considering the opportunities, Crowley lets his eyes move down to the spot where Balthazar's hand rests. "I don't think I said anything about you not liking it. I said I wanted to punish you for your behaviour. One doesn't necessarily exclude the other. So let's get back to what it is I can do for you, angel. Why don't you tell me?" There is an underlying tone of steel in the way Crowley speaks, as if he won't accept anything but Balthazar's compliance.

Something outside Balthazar's very limited experience in the matter tells him that this is a game in which honesty is important. If the game is going where Balthazar thinks it's going, he could be hurt if he tries to play this tougher than he has the bollocks to play it. To gain a moment of precious time, he spreads his fingers, rubbing them over one nipple, making it hard under his touch. It doesn't mean that he can't use his inexperience as a weapon, a way to win. In love and war... But honesty reduces the risk of being hurt. 

"I'd like you to show me how strong you are," Balthazar says, caressing his own chest. "You're one of the most powerful beings on Earth now. You should show me exactly _how_ strong. I'd like you to."

"You would?" Crowley almost growls, his fingers clutching at the edge of the tub. "You're not weak yourself."

"Precisely. You could hold me down, couldn't you? Even if I fought you? You could tie me up and do unspeakable things to me. Good things. Because I'd let you." Balthazar smiles at Crowley's reaction and turns off the jets. He waits until the water has stopped foaming before he reaches between his legs once more, resuming the stroking of his cock. "Before... when you got here, I was thinking of you. About how you'd hold me down and teach me how it feels to be fucked hard by a man. I thought about how it would feel to have your cock in me, how you'd make it good when you took me hard." Balthazar strokes his hard dick faster; he's arousing himself because he knows that every word is true. He pushes away any thoughts about the contract and their marriage, instead focusing on the tension between them, the undeniable tension. "That's what I want." Balthazar lets out a deep moan. "Teach me how to enjoy your punishment."

"Goddamn!" Crowley moves fast, suddenly standing behind Balthazar. Balthazar can hear his breath coming out in harsh little puffs, either he's aroused or angry. "Are you aware of what you're offering me? What you are doing to me?" Crowley slides down on his knees at the side of the tub, eye to eye with Balthazar. "Are you aware what I want to do to you if you really let me?" He reaches for Balthazar's hair, entangling his fingers in it, before he closes his fist, tugging at it.

A surge of pleasure makes Balthazar shiver again. _If he lets Crowley do to him what he wants_. Balthazar realises that the power is now in his hands. Crowley... he'll do everything Balthazar lets him do. It's _beautiful_ , how the offer weakens the King of Hell. "You'd like it, won't you, Crowley?" Balthazar whispers, his neck stretching as Crowley pulls his hair. "You'd like to have an angel in your bed, right? One you are allowed to make so dirty and debauched that it'll make Lucifer look clean."

"You have no idea," Crowley groans. "Fuck, Balthazar, I knew we'd be good together. But this exceeds my expectations. No wonder you had to flee from the halo host." His voice becomes a velvet caress once more as Crowley leans in, his lips brushing over the shell of Balthazar's ear. "I'm going to break you, my dirty little angel, and put you back together again. Would you like that? To be fucked and tortured and loved and cared for until the pleasure becomes too much?"

Balthazar's yes is but a weak mewl. He'd once sworn that he'd throw himself into every delicious temptation that life on Earth holds and by anything that's holy, Crowley is offering just about everything that Balthazar hasn't yet sampled. "Yes... yes, please," he moans again, tilting his head, inviting Crowley to start just now, because they have thirty days to try this out, and every minute is precious.

"Wanton little slut, you can hardly wait," Crowley murmurs, almost lovingly, yanking Balthazar's hair so that he has to turn his face towards Crowley. "But then again, neither can I; I want to show you what you're doing to me." 

Then his mouth is on Balthazar's and there is something to be said for sealing deals with kisses. Crowley's tongue is hot and determined, invading Balthazar's mouth, leaving him no choice but to let Crowley own the kiss. The steady, deep thrusts into his mouth are arousing, more sensual than any kiss that Balthazar had taken before. And that's the difference. This kiss is not something Balthazar takes. It's given to him and he has no choice but take it. He's powerless, and then not, he can stop it any time he wants to, but he doesn't. He opens his mouth, sucking in Crowley's tongue deeper, licking and biting and swallowing until he feels like he's filled entirely with the kiss. Crowley is arousing beyond words, and they're just sharing their first kiss.

Fingers slide over Balthazar's chest; he barely registers, not until Crowley pinches his nipple. Balthazar gasps, only to have Crowley's tongue shoved deeper down his throat. Oh, it feels so good, the tinge of pain, like a pinch of chilli in a cup of sweet cocoa. Balthazar wants to ask for more, and Crowley seems to sense his need for another pinch, harder this time. It makes Balthazar groan and his hard cock throb. Crowley likes his reaction for the kissing stops for an instant, Crowley's lips curling as if he's smiling.

"More?"

"Please!" Balthazar's one word turns into a soft cry as Crowley's nails tear as his nipple. "Yes."

Crowley kisses him again, for how long Balthazar doesn't know, for the pleasure is too great to leave any room for much thinking. If this is the first lesson, Balthazar likes it very much. In itself, the pain is unpleasant, but combined with the masterful kisses it is perfect. Not too sweet, not too harsh. That Crowley is just as aroused by this only makes every painful moment better. It continues, more tugging and pinching and hard kisses, until Balthazar's nipples are a mess. He is moments from coming untouched, his release so close. Reaching between his legs, Balthazar wants to come, he wants to come with Crowley's tongue in his mouth, the hard hands on his body.

"Stop." It's an order, and clearly Crowley will not be disobeyed. "Get up." The command is followed by a painful pull at Balthazar's hair and he does as he's told, moaning as he stands, Crowley's hand firmly around a handful of hair. He's not allowed any pause. Crowley drags him, dripping wet, across the terrace, down the stairs into one of the penthouse's bedrooms. He's pushed inside, and before he manages to react, Crowley has him up against the bed. Crowley is stroking his back gently before he leans in, pressing a similarly gentle kiss to Balthazar's cheek. "I'm not going to stop, no matter how much you beg me. I'll refuse to take no for an answer. But mention one of the Winchesters and I'll cease immediately. Do you understand?"

Oh, Balthazar understands. Power. With a word he can tear down every expectation, every need Crowley has. He _likes_ it. And of course there is the included benefit that Crowley can't do anything that Balthazar doesn't want him to do. He trusts Crowley to do exactly what he promises: give pain and pleasure within the limits that Balthazar sets for him. "I understand. I mention the Winchesters and you stop whatever it is you are doing to me." Balthazar almost adds a sarcastic jibe, but he stops himself. This is too important to be the target of anything but serious consideration. Acknowledging that fact, Balthazar decides to give Crowley something for his effort and honesty. "I've never tried anything like this. Not the... pain. Not with a man, either. I meant it when I asked you to teach me." Balthazar offers his mouth to Crowley, kissing him for the first time by his own volition almost reverently. "I do trust you, Crowley, in this. That you are not going to hurt me."

Rarely has Balthazar seen such an expression in Crowley's eyes. "I won't, darling, I swear," Crowley whispers so tenderly that Balthazar feels his heart flutter at the endearment.

How strange to think that trust matters to the King of Hell, but evidently it does. The tenderness gets a physical outlet, for Crowley shows that he is able to touch Balthazar with a similar tenderness. It's such a contrast to the pain that it enhances the dull throbbing of Balthazar's abused nipples. Damn, it's good.

"On your back," Crowley demands, his lips pressing soft kisses down Balthazar's neck. "And your hands on the headboard. I'd tie you up, but not today. I want you to show me that you want to obey me. That you want me."

Balthazar doesn't think that will be a problem. He wants Crowley so badly that he's forgotten everything but the need that makes him stay where Crowley asks him to stay. He's thrown himself into an abyss of lovely, deviant sex with a demon, and Balthazar will give the soul he doesn't have to make it continue. He's infatuated. Crowley is a challenge. Balthazar can't imagine ever being tired of this new, intriguing game they're playing. There are so many possibilities, so much satisfaction to be had.

Obeying Crowley's order, Balthazar lies down as gracefully as possible. Balthazar likes his vessel. It is young enough to be strong and agile, and old enough to show a few traces of life and experience. The vessel is attractive, and Balthazar values it highly; it has brought him so much pleasure. He likes showing it off, and he likes it even better now that he can see the appreciation of it reflected as desire in Crowley's eyes. Balthazar arches his back, hands above his head, reaching for the headboard. "Please," he whispers seductively, spreading his legs a bit to give Crowley the perfect view. Balthazar's cock is long and slender, perfect in shape. He'd like Crowley to take a good look at it.

Sliding onto the bed, still fully clad in the sinister black Anderson & Sheppard suit, Crowley straddles Balthazar's thighs, looking at him as he's a particularly appetising dish. It is arousing, too, that Crowley is dressed and Balthazar is naked. He likes it, how he's looked at, admired. He cannot stop himself from stretching and flexing, giving Crowley an eyeful of sexy angel skin.

"You're beautiful," Crowley says, caressing Balthazar's chest before he claws at it, making Balthazar gasp from the sudden pain. He breath is ragged, torn into pieces by the sensation of nails over skin. Balthazar looks down. Crowley's fingers leave red welts across his chest and abdomen, a sharp burning sensation that only serves as an agent for his arousal. "Even more so now, with my marks on you."

"I like those," Balthazar groans, "your marks. So you really want me to belong to you?"

"I have a month to show you how much I want it. I'll make sure I'll have you convinced by then. For now, be patient; I'll mark you over and over, my lovely."

The promise makes Balthazar moan loudly. He like how possessive Crowley gets. It feels good to be wanted. "And now? What will you show me now?"

"Eager, are we?" Crowley moves back a little, looking hungrily at Balthazar's hard cock as he releases one of Balthazar's legs. "Now you'll pull up one leg and hold it there when I play with your hole."

The sound Balthazar makes is not resembling any known word. He bites his lip, arousal filling him as he watches Crowley lick a finger, making it properly wet. It's difficult to hold the leg up like that, waiting for Crowley to put the finger inside him. The touch feels good--slow, confident movements before Crowley presses inside, a long slide, all of the digit inside in one go. It doesn't hurt, it's just one finger, but the pressure and the submission together are making Balthazar close to coming right that instant.

"Yes, like that, so hot and wanton," Crowley almost growls, thrusting his finger in and out of Balthazar's arse slowly. "Touch yourself. A bit harder that you'd like. You are not allowed to come until I say so."

It's a relief finally to be able to stroke his aching cock. The relief makes Balthazar gasp for air, as if he demands it as much as he needs to come. "Mmm, yeah, want you in me," Balthazar sighs, moving his hips, thrusting into his own palm, the dry skin a bit uncomfortable. He likes it; somehow it feels so good to do what Crowley demands. Balthazar can see how it affects his lover. Crowley presses in deep, then pulls out and more pressure is added when he forces in another finger. Balthazar cries out, the pain precisely enough to pull him back from the edge. "Fuck, so good," he groans, clenching his teeth.

"Look at me," Crowley says, his voice dark from lust. "Come." He curls his fingers, rubbing something inside Balthazar hard, pleasure spiking like daggers and it's all he can do, try to hang on, to keep his eyes on Crowley when the orgasm races through him, unstoppable. He writhes on the sheets, crying out loud, not caring who can hear how good this feels. He clenches around Crowley as he shoves his fingers in even harder. It almost makes Balthazar faint, it's the perfect mix of release and hurt. Balthazar gasps Crowley's name into the pillow, surrendering himself to the King of Hell and the pleasures of human flesh.

Balthazar has rarely had better and this is just the beginning.

Crowley's soft caresses follow him down from the orgasm high. A tender kiss is pressed to his brow. "Lie still. I'll get you some water," Crowley says. Balthazar doesn't need the water, but Crowley perhaps senses that he'd like the comfort. Balthazar still hovers somewhere in the seventh heaven, wherever that is. He manages a moan and reaches for the comforter to wipe off the semen splattered over his stomach and chest.

"Leave it," Crowley says. "I want you dirty."

If that's what Crowley wants, Balthazar is fine with it. He might even like the idea of being dirty for his demon. He's so blissed out that he doesn't care to move, so a shower is out of the question. Balthazar laughs softly, almost giddily. If Crowley is going to leave him like this every time, Balthazar will spend the rest of his immortality in bed. Not a bad prospect when one woke up this morning to a particularly nasty demand from the prissy virgin angel from upstairs. Somehow any arguments against their upcoming nuptials that Balthazar hasn't already dismissed will have a hard time entering his brain when the counter strike is an eternity of sex with Crowley.

Crowley returns with a glass of ice cold water and Balthazar gulps it down, enjoying the taste and the sensation. He holds out the glass for Crowley to take, expecting to be serviced. Now that he's done his part to make Crowley happy, Crowley better pay him back.

The black Anderson & Sheppard is thrown carelessly on a brocade-upholstered chair. Crowley returns to the bed only wearing a pair of tight Calvin Kleins, leaving little to imagination. He's either hard or very, very well endowed, or both.

There's by far enough to make Balthazar fully open his eyes and stare. "Rumours certainly weren't exaggerated." He can't stop himself from letting out a content moan, not that he knows yet whether size matters, but Balthazar wants the best, and unless he'd be willing to start a relationship with a stallion, Crowley is _it_.

Pushing aside the duvet, Crowley leans back into the pile of soft pillows in the luxurious bed. "Took some time to find a meatsuit that matched the original. I like decent-sized tools." Crowley slides a hand down the impressive length before he pulls the duvet over them both.

Balthazar lets himself be pulled into Crowley's arms. Demon skin is exactly as warm and soft as human skin and Balthazar relaxes, sighing content as Crowley let him snuggle up to him, caressing his back.. "You're sure I shouldn't?" Balthazar rests his hand just above the waistband of Crowley's thin cotton boxer briefs. They're barely large enough to hold Crowley's appendage in place.

"I'm sure. When I tell you to, not before."

"But..." Balthazar sighs, irritated by his own confusion.

"What you are asking is 'what does Crowley get out of it'. What you're asking is why I don't allow you to make me come?"

Balthazar makes a tired sound that's neither reply, nor not.

"What you haven't yet understood, sweetheart, is that this is not about instant gratification. It's about patience. Anticipation. Control. You're a long term investment, and I have time to wait for the payout. That's what I'm aiming for, and I'll make sure my investment _will_ be rewarding."

"A declaration of love if there ever was one. Of course I'm an investment. I'm precious."

"More than you think, darling." Crowley pulls Balthazar closer, a strong arm around Balthazar's waist. "It's all about mutual funding. Stop worrying and relax. Let's just enjoy this part of the game, shall we?"

The bed is warm and Crowley is really good at what he does: the King of Hell is also the King of Marathon-cuddling, Balthazar discovers. He leans against Crowley's chest, still smeared in sweat and come, Crowley's fingers trailing across his stomach, spreading the drying semen on his body. It should feel disgusting, but doesn't. It feels as if Crowley is claiming him again, this time with a languid determination. Sleep isn't necessary for any of them but still Balthazar is lulled into dreams and warmth, resting safely in Crowley's embrace.

Balthazar returns to a more awake state. The sun is high on the sky, but it is Crowley's hand working his dick that makes him open his eyes. Crowley's erection presses hard against the crevice between his cheeks as Crowley undulates against him.

"Wake up, angel," Crowley urges, his hand moving up and down in calm, light strokes. "Kiss me."

Balthazar lets out a small sound, the bastard child between a moan and a yawn. He moves as close to Crowley as he possibly can, pushing against the pressure of the huge cock that teases his arse. He kisses Crowley awkwardly, turning his head over his shoulder to lick at Crowley's lips. The kiss is sloppy and has the taste of morning breath, but it's a bit difficult to complain with Crowley's tongue half-way down his throat. Balthazar makes a proper moan and thrusts into Crowley's hand, enjoying the light caress. He'd like harder and faster and maybe a little more rough, but it's good. Crowley's thick cock makes Balthazar's sore arse hurt, and Balthazar becomes more aroused by the thought of what Crowley did to him yesterday. Balthazar's cock is damp from pre-come and he'd very much like to get some kind of relief. "Make me come," Balthazar demands when Crowley stops kissing him breathless. "Crowley, I wanna come."

"Really?" Crowley purrs. "I had no idea." He pulls Balthazar's dick almost cruelly a couple of times, then leans over his shoulder to whisper in his ear. "I'll give you a choice, sweetheart. You can either get on your knees on the floor and suck me off until I flood your mouth, or I can continue jerking you off. I'll make you come, but it'll hurt a bit."

Balthazar whines, annoyed. He told Crowley what he liked, and it's so unfair to make a challenge out of it. He wants release and he wants it now and usually, what Balthazar wants, Balthazar gets. Agreed, it's a bit selfish that his release is more important to him, but Crowley should have thought about that before he decided to take liberties with Balthazar's morning glory. "Make me come," Balthazar repeats. He doesn't mind that it'll hurt. He needs to come.

"Mmm, you bad, bad boy," Crowley murmurs in Balthazar's ear, his voice both sharp and sweet at the same time. "I knew you'd make the wrong choice and I look forward to see you deal with the consequences later tonight."

"Con... sequences? Oh!" Balthazar tries to make sense of what Crowley is saying, but it's damned hard to think when someone as experienced as Crowley is working one's cock. "I- Mmm..."

"God, I look forward to it," Crowley growls, nibbling at Balthazar's neck, making him turn his head at the blasphemous use of his father's name. "No, no, none of that, angel," Crowley whispers, diverting Balthazar's attention once more with quick, tight strokes of his fist.

"Yes... oh, yes," Balthazar gasps, again impressed with the way Crowley knows precisely what he needs. "'s good." Crowley is frotting against his arse, the thick cock damp at at the tip, pre-come seeping through the fabric, enough to make a large wet spot on Balthazar's back. Every trust from Crowley's hips forces Balthazar's dick into Crowley's fist. He's so close now; it's so good, the way Crowley manhandles him, how he directs Balthazar's orgasms like they were obeying only the King of Hell. Then Crowley presses a nail into Balthazar's slit, a sharp, harsh pain as the tip of his finger is driven into the opening of his cock as deep as it can possibly go.

Balthazar cries out, pain and pleasure fighting for dominance. Pleasure wins and Balthazar sobs out his violent orgasm in Crowley's arms.


	4. Retail Therapy and Other Recreational Pleasures

They use the day in London. They shop Boss, Westwood and Paul Smith and Balthazar manages to find a Rolex he really likes. He buys himself a smartphone, he'd wanted one of those before he was... disassembled. They shop for more suits; the McQueen is ruined anyway, and Balthazar does need decent clothes until his tailor has his suits ready. They take lunch at V&A, mostly because Crowley adores the restaurant's circular dining room. Later in the afternoon they stroll down Kensington High Street, exploring the streets around Kensington Palace. Balthazar casually buys an Aston Martin Vantage for Crowley because it seems impossible to drag the King of Hell away from the olive-green aluminium wonder. A hedge fund is paying for it, quite without knowing it, and Balthazar, occasionally in favour of social justice, transfers the rest of the fund's money in useful little bits to _Occupy Wall Street_ while sitting in Crowley's lovely new £135,000 car. Smartphones are apparently good for a lot of things. Balthazar finds out that he simply needs to point at the screen and decide what the phone needs to do for him. It works perfectly, although a few additional hedge fund administrators and a few Swiss bank account holders might disagree.

Thus stocked up on decent menswear, supercars and other basic goods, like a few million pounds on his new bank account, Balthazar relaxes as Crowley manoeuvres the car through the heavy London traffic, just for the fun of it. It earns Crowley a strict look from Balthazar when he deliberately causes a crash and a three-hour delay from the clean-up on the M1. The Aston Martin is unscathed.

Crowley looks decidedly smug. "Hello, King of Hell here. Got us five souls already as far as I can tell from the demon activity. Incredible what people are willing to do as not to sit in a queue for a few hours." He tuts, clearly extraordinarily pleased with himself. "More entertaining than running people over with a charabanc and a a four-in-hand team of horses. Less messy, too."

After his small problem with the Titanic and a few thousand souls, Balthazar finds it wise not to say anything at all. If it amuses Crowley to get into a little mischief, who would Balthazar be to begrudge him?

The traffic becomes less troublesome. "Should we take a trip across the pond? I suppose we are able to take the car, too?" Crowley says. "I'm not leaving her here. I think I'd like to stay-"

"Mandarin Oriental. New York," Balthazar interrupts. "The Taipan Suite. It has the better view." He laughs. "Don't tell me you're falling in love with a car. At least it's a decent car, I admit. Pretty."

"Jealous, sweetheart?" Crowley smiles, a triumphant little smile that more than anything tells Balthazar how pleased Crowley is with that notion. "It is a pretty car, yes, and entertaining. But you-" Crowley leans in, pressing a kiss to Balthazar's cheek. "You'll entertain me tonight."

The way the words come out makes Balthazar a bit nervous. There is an underlying threat somewhere. "Or the other way around," Balthazar smirks, a bit cocky.

"I wouldn't count on it," Crowley says casually, like he is commenting on the weather. "If you'd please move us and my new toy? I'm tired of English motorways. I'll have a drink, a comfortable sofa and my angel. Preferably today."

"Oh, you should just have mentioned that you had bought me for your personal use as your manservant," Balthazar snaps. "But of course, Master," he adds, snorting half-way angrily and zaps them both and Crowley's new love to the underground garage at the Mandarin.

They dine in the suite on the 54th floor, sitting in the sofa, listening to Wagner. It isn't half bad, any of it, and Balthazar secretly admits to himself that the foie gras made from Long Island duck, neatly accented with a mix of summer berries and hibiscus is probably one of the better meals he's ever had. Crowley is in the process of murdering a huge piece of Japanese-style wagyu beef. The Tsukasabotan Daiginjo sake goes well with the food, the slight taste of oranges balancing out the fat taste of duck liver.

"I might have underestimated the brilliance of rice wine," Crowley says between mouthfuls, "and this is damned brilliant. Meat's too heavy, but leave it to the Japanese to produce a counteract."

"Japanese food _is_ refined," Balthazar says, almost regretting the foie gras in favour of the wagyu. "But wagyu is American-bred." Then again, Balthazar doesn't need to speak with the beef. He just wants to eat it, so who cares as long as it tastes well? They are staying for a while; he can try the wagyu tomorrow. Or later.

As if he's read Balthazar's thoughts, Crowley puts down his fork. "Should we snatch up the Mandarin's chef? She's brilliant, and we need a full staff when we move to-" He stopped, pursing his mouth. "Where _do_ we move? We agreed that neither Heaven, nor Hell are options. Your mansion? Is it habitable at all?"

"I doubt it. It has been a few years. Hopelessly outdated by now. Also, everybody knows where it is since Castiel dragged the Winchesters and half of Raphael's host there. And do those people need to learn to wipe their bloody shoes before entering? You should have seen my favourite silk Keshan. Ruined. It was worth at least five thousand pound sterling." Balthazar rolls his eyes in annoyance. He'd really liked that rug. He'd personally picked it out from a book on Indian antiques before he borrowed it from a lovely palace in Udaipur. "Not to speak of the time when they ruined the floor in my hall by setting fire to it with Holy Oil."

"Perhaps the Winchester boys do have something against rugs and floors in general?" Crowley raises an eyebrow. "They painted — _painted_ — a Devil's Trap on one of my rugs. Destroyed it, of course. A particularly nice antique Aubusson, by the way."

"Are you telling me that we need to buy our carpets and rugs at Ikea?" Balthazar asks, "because I'd rather install dirt floors using my bare feet than to sink that low."

"No, sweetheart. It means that we have to secure our home against pests and intruders. While we're at it, where is that house of yours? Should we get another?"

"Portsmouth. If we find a few interior designers to work with, it might be salvageable. It has a nice view over the Sakonnet River. Fifteen acres of farmland too."

"I'm thinking Kenzo and Conran. I own their souls already, so a small extension of their deadlines might give them the right, let's say... incentive to work for us as of tomorrow." Crowley looks particularly satisfied with the entire idea.

"Didn't know Kenzo did interior," Balthazar says. He always liked Kenzo's clothes, though, so he'll probably like what the man can do with his mansion.

"Kenzo has a lovely house. Mix of antiques, Japanese style, and modern furniture. Been there a few times, doing business. Impeccable taste. Greens and reds and mahogany."

Balthazar does appreciate Crowley's rather refined taste. "We could go look at the remains of the house at some point tomorrow. Find out what needs to be done. Not that I mind this," he waves his hand, indicating the luxurious suite. "But a hotel room is hardly fitting for a king. Or for _me_ , at least not as a long term solution."

"No, God forbid that you should live under such poor circumstances. It's only an eighteen hundred square feet suite. Abysmal." Crowley laughs, a deep, rich, rumbling sound that makes Balthazar's stomach flutter a little. "Now, since we're discussing what is fitting for kings, I'd appreciate it if you put your plate down and moved over here to kiss me," Crowley says, pushing his own plate aside. "We have things to do before the chef sends up pudding. She recommended a lovely _chocolate crémeux_ and a lemon _gelato_. We don't want those to go to waste because we're behind schedule."

Balthazar shifts closer, leaning in to press his mouth to Crowley's lips. They're warm and Crowley tastes of spices and oranges. They kiss for a while, a slow, calm, deep kiss, before Crowley gently breaks away.

A bit suspicious, Balthazar decides that it'd be wise to inquire as to what Crowley means when he mentions a schedule. "Things to do? Other than to eat, drink and enjoy the view?" The view of Central Park and the Hudson River is particularly nice, and even better when enjoyed with good food and good company.

"Do I need to remind me that your choices have consequences, my darling?" Crowley's smile is disturbing and for a second his eyes seem to glow crimson.

Balthazar does remember Crowley's comment about him being the entertainment for the evening and now that he's reminded of it, he remembers, too, that Crowley wasn't entirely happy with him when he chose his own pleasure before Crowley's. Balthazar swallows, suddenly nervous, although he knows he could rip Crowley apart with his bare hands if he cared to. Which he doesn't, since his continued survival depends on the King of Hell, so he'll definitely keep the ripping to a minimum. Also he's beginning to like his husband-to-be.

Leaning back in the sofa, Crowley lets his eyes slide down Balthazar's body, the look almost burning hot. Balthazar can feel his dick stirring; there is such heat in the way Crowley watches him that it cannot but feel arousing. It is desire so intense that Balthazar knows that it won't take long before he's naked, begging Crowley to touch him. To be the target of such intensity... Oh yes, please!

Crowley's tone is low and sultry and he speaks but one word, enough to make Balthazar moan. "Strip."

The order sends a shiver through Balthazar. He has never taken any pleasure in orders from anyone, on the contrary. Coming from Crowley it's an entirely different experience. The small taste of Crowley's dominance that Balthazar had earlier has him longing for more. He looks Crowley in the eye for a second, not to challenge him, merely to ensure that Crowley acknowledges that Balthazar does this because he wants to, not because Crowley is able to boss him around.

Crowley doesn't say anything. He nods, a curt nod. His eyes turn hard and cold, as if he decides to wear a different persona for their game.

The small nod makes it clear that they're both on the same wavelength and Balthazar undresses, slowly, all the time looking at Crowley. Balthazar likes to be looked at, for Crowley, despite the cold demeanour, cannot hide his desire. If nothing else, then for the massive bulge in the black trousers. Balthazar is vain enough to show off, knowing that he looks good.

Pushing the coffee table away from the sofa with one foot, Crowley crooks a finger. "Come here, sweetheart."

Balthazar puts a sway to his hips and walks the few steps across the soft rug. He looks down at Crowley, suggestively licking his lips. "At your service," he can't stop himself from saying, the words dripping from sarcasm. What with their earlier talk about punishment, it does occur to Balthazar that he might come to regret it. The thought makes his cock twitch and grow even harder.

"Aroused already?" Crowley licks his lips. "Oh, darling, it'll be so delightful to teach you your place."

"My... place?" Balthazar breathes, half annoyed, half excited.

"Your place. Kneel."

"I-" Balthazar wants to and then something in him fights the want. He hesitates.

" _Kneel_." It's a tone of voice that tolerates no disobedience.

Balthazar takes a deep breath and forces his body to do what he's told. He, an angel of the Lord, kneels before the King of Hell and it feels so filthy and very, very wrong that Balthazar can hardly stay upright. He makes a mewling sound, letting out a bit of the aroused frustration he feels. It's difficult to obey, but Balthazar has the distinct notion that it'll be worth it later.

"Good," Crowley says, the praise feeling soothing. "So lovely like this." He rewards Balthazar with a languid stroke of his cheek, a slide of fingers down his neck and along his collarbone.

Gasping for air, Balthazar recognises the feeling, the shift in power. He has little experience with dominance, but he knows enough to understand that he is giving Crowley a gift by allowing him to take control. As the King of Hell, Crowley has gained in strength, matching Balthazar's angelic powers. It arouses Balthazar immensely, tied up as he is in his own anticipation of what Crowley will do to him, making sure that that he'll feel content and safe and most of all satisfied when they are done. A foreign feeling mixes with the arousal and since the man in front of him is the most notorious demon alive it feels out of place. But Balthazar knows it, still. It's trust.

He trusts Crowley. It should feel disconcerting but doesn't.

Crowley holds out a hand and Balthazar takes it. Crowley's palm is warm and hard and good. Crowley raises Balthazar's hand to his lips and kisses it. "Today you chose your own pleasure before mine," Crowley says quietly, a tone of disappointment hiding behind the soft words. "I need to teach you that there are consequences to being selfish when my well-being should be your first priority."

Balthazar is about to open his mouth to protest, but Crowley strikes out with his free hand, grabbing Balthazar's hair. He yelps, surprised. A hard pull drags him up and across Crowley's lap before he can fight back. An unrelenting hand keeps him down while Crowley strokes his back as if to relax him. "Your punishment, angel," Crowley purrs, moving his hand further down, pinching Balthazar's arse lightly, barely hard enough to hurt. "I think twenty strokes will be adequate for now."

"You're not going to-" Balthazar is cut off by a hard pull of his hair. "I am not a child." 

"I would never spank a child. That is barbaric. And you? You will lie quietly and receive your punishment, Balthazar. Twenty-five."

 _Fuck_. This is going downwards, and fast. Balthazar hadn't counted on being hauled over Crowley's knee and disciplined like an unruly boy. He is distracted by Crowley's hand, rubbing over his buttocks, one finger trailing down his crevice, over his arsehole. A small flash of sharp arousal shoots through him. The situation is humiliating, and still he reacts to Crowley so promptly. It is even more humiliating, Balthazar realises, that he actually wants Crowley to continue.

Soft lips brush against his skin as Crowley bends down and kisses Balthazar's shoulder. "Let go, sweetheart, I'll make it good for you," Crowley coos. He kisses Balthazar's shoulder again, little wet, warm kisses, before he kneads Balthazar's arse once more, none too gently. "You know how to stop me. Be a good angel and tell me."

Balthazar hesitates. The kisses and the squeezing feel good, and he can feel his reluctance disappear. He does trust Crowley, enough to let him have what he wants. Since his lover promises he'll make it good, Balthazar shouldn't hold back. They're on a thirty-days' schedule. "I mention the Winchesters," Balthazar says, choking on words and humiliation. "Nothing else will make you stop."

Another kiss and a pause, then Crowley's hand lands on Balthazar's arse with a loud smack. Balthazar cries out, more from the sudden touch than from pain. A warm, burning sensation spreads on his left cheek. "Good," Crowley says and smacks the other arse cheek. This time Balthazar is prepared and he doesn't make a sound, but concentrates instead on the feeling of Crowley's warmth, on the hardness of his muscular thighs. Crowley caresses Balthazar's buttocks for a while before he lands yet another set of blows, this time harder, making Balthazar moan. "So good, taking it so good," Crowley says, massaging the reddening skin.

It doesn't hurt that much. Balthazar braces himself for more; he doesn't think that Crowley will restrain himself through the entire session, and Balthazar has learned already that protests don't pay. He is also aware that when Crowley delivers smack number twenty-five the pain will probably not feel as manageable as it does now. Balthazar doesn't look forward to it. Another slap and another. Balthazar keeps quiet. Then three-four-five, in rapid succession, harder now, before the gentle hand is back, easing the stinging. Balthazar sighs, shifting, at the sensation of feather-light fingertips on his skin. Again Crowley slides a finger down across his hole, pressing into it for an instant, but no more. The small, frustrated groan that Balthazar makes is full of need. Oh, he'd like that finger to slide into him, to have Crowley finger his arse again until he comes. Slap number ten makes Balthazar hiss and forget about fingering until the pain subsides.

The next five remind Balthazar of his position, because Crowley's hand in his hair is heavy and strong as he fights against it to get up. His skin is smarting; it's getting worse as Crowley works him, alternating slaps and caresses until Balthazar can't tell pleasure from pain. They mingle into a surge of emotions and needs, fighting each other to get out and at twenty-five, he's aroused and sore, his cock hard, rubbing against Crowley's thighs.

"So brave, so good," Crowley whispers, his hands soothing once more. "I knew you could take it, sweetheart, you did so well."

Balthazar bites his lip. Somehow the praise is too much, this honest appreciation that he'd never had in Heaven. Or anywhere else, for that matter. He's an angel, damn it, not a human. He doesn't need praise. He was a soldier. He doesn't cry. But still he bites his lip harder when Crowley pulls him up, looking at him so tenderly that it could have broken walls of stone.

"Kiss me," Crowley demands and Balthazar has to let go of his last defence, handing himself and all the pent-up feelings over to his lover. He kisses Crowley like his life depended on it, which isn't too far from the truth. Crowley wraps his arms around Balthazar, stroking his back, avoiding the sore areas further down, whispering sweet nonsense in his ear. Shivering in Crowley's embrace, Balthazar lets out one deep sob. Crowley is so tender, as if he really liked that Balthazar was able to endure his punishment. Because Crowley is who he is, it affects Balthazar; what little compassion Crowley contains he gives to him. Willingly. There's a strange kind of fairness in the exchange they have made. Balthazar finds it intriguing. He fell to Earth, wanting to explore the pleasures of the flesh, and despite the pain, this _is_ pleasurable. So pleasurable that Balthazar wants more.

Maybe Crowley senses the not-quite-stilled need. "You did everything I expected of you," he murmurs, his lips on Balthazar's cheek. "So perfect for me." Another lingering kiss before Crowley withdraws, looking at Balthazar. "An honest answer, darling. Are you able to continue? Do you want to?"

Full for now from tenderness and care, Balthazar owes himself and Crowley to think before he replies. He is not entirely sure what is going on, other than Crowley is trying to give him what he'd asked for yesterday: to learn to enjoy punishment. To enjoy power and pain. Balthazar isn't even sure why he wants it, or what it is doing to him. Only Crowley gives him what he'd barely recognized as something he needs. Crowley makes him _belong_ , tangled in the strange giving and taking of sensations.

"Yes," Balthazar finally says, giving his consent. "I'd like to."

For a while, Crowley takes his mouth, deep, slow, tender kisses until Balthazar _needs_ to take a breath, overwhelmed, maybe, by a long forgotten need from his vessel. Crowley kisses his half-open mouth before he lets go, leaving Balthazar on the floor, kneeling. "This is how it goes," Crowley says, suddenly very matter-of-factly. "Because you need to think and be careful when I ask you to make choices." He cups Balthazar's face, looking at him with a strange intensity, as if he is able to see Balthazar's unshed tears. "You either take ten more strokes and I'll satisfy you, or you stay there on the floor, in your place, and take my cock in your mouth and suck it until you choke on it and on the come I'm going to flood your throat with. And _you_ will not be allowed to come." Crowley smiles. "What will it be, sweetheart?"

Balthazar is a fast learner. "Your cock in my mouth." He looks up at Crowley, realising he needs yet another word to finish what he wants to say. "Please." Balthazar's cock is hard as stone, still, and somehow the immediate submission to Crowley's wishes makes it twitch, a drop of pre-come at the tip. As he sits there, kneeling, he knows that he wants it, wants to satisfy Crowley, do something for him, so that he earns more of the tenderness, more of the loving attention that Crowley offers him in return for his obedience. Which is so much more than he ever got in return for being an obedient, righteous soldier of Heaven.

Crowley doesn't disappoint. He leans forward, taking Balthazar's face between his hands, kissing him deeply before he let go, pressing a few light kisses to his mouth and cheek. "You're everything I thought you'd be," Crowley whispers, sounding almost grateful. "So perfect and willing, all mine."

Balthazar isn't sure he wants to follow that line of thought, being claimed as Crowley's. He is willing to admit that he really does want Crowley as his lover; despite the few hours they have spent together no one has ever given more to Balthazar than Crowley has, no one has ever challenged him the way Crowley challenges him. But Balthazar is not in love. He's merely intrigued.

Waiting for Crowley's next move, Balthazar forces his body to relax. He knows what he has to do, counting on Crowley to guide him through it, taking his inexperience into consideration.

And so Crowley does. The King of Hell leans back in the sofa. He rubs his hand over the bulge in his trousers, moaning as his cock presses against the stretched fabric. Opening the zip, Crowley slowly pushes down his boxer briefs, revealing a cock almost disproportional in all its enormous glory. Balthazar whimpers at the sight. It's a perfect cock, long and thick and heavy, foreskin pale pink and soft-looking. Balthazar wonders whether it will feel like velvet on his tongue.

Crowley watches him with half-closed eyes as if he's assessing Balthazar's ability for cock-sucking. Balthazar waits. It's quite clear that Crowley prefers that he leaves his free will behind when he gives himself up to him. Crowley strokes his cock lazily. He reaches for Balthazar, a hand around the nape of his neck, a light touch, a light pull. Crowley pushes the foreskin down a bit. "Don't take too much," he says. "You can't take all of it yet." He places his hand around the impressive length a good three inches down; he wonders if Crowley's recent meatsuit, too, has the same three extra inches that Crowley sold his soul for centuries ago. He doesn't need them, but each to their own. Balthazar leans forward, obeying the light pressure of Crowley's hand. "Careful with your teeth. Suck lightly and use your tongue. You will swallow when I come."

Balthazar's lips slide over the head, as he kisses it, close-mouthed. He makes a small nod, giving Crowley his acceptance of what is demanded of him before he licks at the head tentatively. He opens his mouth to let the thick cock slide an inch into his mouth. He sucks it in further, trying to do to Crowley what he likes himself. Above him Crowley moans and shifts, making Balthazar smile as much as he is able, his lips stretched wide. "Doing good," Crowley says. "Open up a bit more, sweetheart. Relax." The endearment should feel annoying but it feels more like a way for Crowley to show his appreciation. It's difficult to take in that much more of Crowley's cock, even as Balthazar tries not to be tense as Crowley puts pressure on his head, forcing his dick deeper in. It hurts when Crowley starts moving. "Suck," Crowley orders, and Balthazar does, using his tongue trying to prevent the cock from going in deeper. It's almost claustrophobic to have his mouth gagged like this. Then Crowley lets out a deep moan. "Baltha- Oh, _fuck_!"

It changes the ordeal. Power. Balthazar is on his knees, Crowley's cock forced between his lips, a demon fucking his mouth and all Balthazar can think of is how he's got the power to satisfy Crowley, to make him lose it and come with Balthazar's name spilling over his lips. It's empowering, it's arousing, it's bloody perfect. Balthazar takes a deep breath, mostly to release tension before he takes Crowley in as deep as he is able, his lips pushing at Crowley's hand. He licks at the length, tasting the first drops of Crowley's come, sucking them into his mouth, moaning at the bitter taste of his demon lover. It's filthy and rough and painful and Balthazar wants more.

Somehow Crowley senses it too, because his cock twitches and Crowley moves his hips up from the sofa, short, sharp thrusts between Balthazar's lips. "Like that, so good," Crowley groans tensely, his hand tightening where it rests on Balthazar's neck. He too, feels the need to breathe, small, loud gasps. "Oh, _fuck_ , baby." Crowley moves his hand down, allowing Balthazar to take in more, but Crowley will have none of it. "Suck the tip." He starts jerking himself off, pulling Balthazar's hair to make him obey. Letting out a frustrated mewl, Balthazar obeys, sucking and licking at the head, relieved still, that he can relax his jaw. His lips are wet from spittle and a narrow stream of saliva trickles down his cheek. He is hard too; only he understands now how his orgasm is not first his priority. He will be rewarded later, he's certain, if he satisfies Crowley properly.

Sucking harder, Balthazar takes pleasure in teasing a little, pausing a bit too long before he sucks and licks the heavy cock again. He moans as Crowley pulls his hair, fucking his mouth faster as Balthazar resumes his eager, slightly clumsy sucking.

"Can't... hold..." Crowley moans, his hand tightening in Balthazar's hair. "Wanna lick my come off your lips. Wanna fuck you... Balthazar. Oh, fuck!"

Crowley tenses, a brief moment entirely still before Balthazar almost chokes on the warm splashes of come spilling into his mouth, into his throat, over his lips. There's too much to swallow, and the thick liquid dribbles down his chin, smeared over his lips as Crowley comes hard, his moans merely incoherent dark sounds. 

The pressure on the back of Balthazar's head disappears. His cock is still hard and untouched. Balthazar forces down the mouthful of warm semen. He doesn't like the taste, but he likes the potential reward for obeying Crowley's orders. Balthazar looks up. Crowley is leaning back, still fully clad, apart from his naked cock that rests against his merino-clad thigh. Even half flaccid it's impressive. Crowley's eyes are closed and his mouth slightly open as he tugs himself in.

Even though his lips hurt, Balthazar allows himself a smile. He has broken Crowley. It amuses him to see the otherwise so collected King of Hell utterly spent and almost vulnerable in his blissful state. Balthazar is sore. His arse is burning, his jaw hurting and his knees are a mess. Like his face. He raises a hand, carefully wiping a splash of come off his cheek. He looks at the dollop on his fingers, not really knowing what to do with it.

"Here, baby, give me a taste." Crowley closes his hand around Balthazar's wrist, his tongue slick and warm as Crowley sucks Balthazar's fingers, licking them clean. "You're perfect," Crowley says, dragging Balthazar up from the floor and onto the sofa, into his arms.

Wincing, Balthazar shifts so that his arse doesn't come into close contact with anything. But he wraps one arm around Crowley's neck, not denying him anything he wants. Clearly Crowley knows what he's doing and Balthazar is _so_ in. As it turns out, Crowley's end goal is to make Balthazar feel fantastic. Fucked out, sore, used, dirty, debauched and utterly, utterly fantastic. Dammit if Balthazar is ever again going to waste time on French models when he can have the King of Hell at his service. Although he'll allow Crowley to think it's the other way around. So much fun, and this is the beginning. Crowley would never show all his cards. There is more pleasure to be had, that much is certain.

For a while they share kisses, Crowley's tenderness such a contrast to the relentless dominance. Balthazar sighs as Crowley pulls a blanket from the sofa over him, keeping him warm although being cold is nothing but a minor discomfort to an angel. A glass of sparkling water is offered to him, and Balthazar sips from it, more for the sake of the comfort. "I like it," he says, cuddling up to Crowley as he puts down the glass. "This is how its gonna be?"

"If that's what you ask for," Crowley says and kisses Balthazar's mouth. "I'm a torture expert. You're an angel. Invulnerable. This... thing between us? It can go very, very far; as far as you want it to go." Turning his face up with a finger under his chin, Crowley smiles. "As long as you want it, sweetheart, I'm going to give you pleasure, whatever that means when we play like this. I won't hurt you against your will. Ever."

"That's a big promise to make. Forever _is_ a very long time," Balthazar says. He's not afraid of what Crowley will do to him, though. That the King of Hell tortured a few angels and a couple of billion souls doesn't bother Balthazar much, not as long as Crowley doesn't make a habit out of it. Torture has nothing to do with the pleasure they share, although pain is involved. "But your little games make for a nice distraction to pass the time."

"Get used to it," Crowley laughs before he leans in and kisses Balthazar again, leaving him hungry for more. Crowley hides his amusement poorly. "You like it. And we really need something exciting to do between now and the end of forever."

If that something includes lots of kinky sex, supercars and scrumptious meals, Balthazar isn't complaining. It's vastly better than being dead. Crowley has grown on him fast; the marriage deal begins to look like a win-win situation. "True," Balthazar agrees, "and I recommend that you do me." He laughs, for the first time feeling carefree and close to happy. "You could take me to bed and you can show me how you suck a dick. Mine, if you don't mind?"


	5. If Old Acquaintance

When he decided to fall during the war, Balthazar planned on sampling just about any pleasure in existence. He fucked, ate and drank, took everything he wanted. It had been some ride. Until he'd been mixed up in one of the Winchesters' pathetic attempts to save the world, of course. One thing he hadn't been, however, was happy. He'd enjoyed it, yes, but he hadn't been happy. 

And now he has a second chance, one that should make him feel miserable, forced into the arms of a creature who should be his mortal enemy. Strange thing is: Balthazar has never before felt so content. One week with Crowley passes by and so does the next almost without Balthazar realising it. Good company and all that.

Crowley is so much _fun_. They share the taste for good wine, for better clothes, and for the best cars redirected Swiss money can buy. They like luxury and neither have much patience for virtue and selflessness. Two weeks and Balthazar _knows_ they're a match made in Heaven, literally. They are like a coin: two different sides imprinted on the same piece of metal. The line between being good and being evil is narrow: a knife's edge to dance upon. Had Heaven sicced Cupid at them with a shotgun, it wouldn't have worked this well, letting them sort out themselves how perfect they are for each other. Balthazar likes Crowley, that's the scary part of it. He likes him, and he likes what they do in bed (Damn, does he like it!) and everything else Crowley does to him. When they're apart, Balthazar has this strange need that is only stilled when he's back in Crowley's arms. Crowley's lips... his eyes... the way he looks at him... the way he kisses... Oh, Balthazar knows he's in deep and it's getting worse by the hour.

Balthazar rubs his hand over his neck at the spot where Crowley placed a few particularly nasty love bites this morning, clearly visible at the v of Balthazar's John Varvatos t-shirt. He moans as his fingers slide over the tender skin. Crowley's close to perfect, always knowing beforehand what Balthazar needs, even before he has expressed the notion himself. Obviously, dealing at crossroads fine-tuned Crowley's variety of empathy, if one can call it that. 

Balthazar smiles as he looks up, knowing that Crowley is resting in their new bedroom, in their luxurious new bed. Picking out the antique Georges Jacob canopy bed together at the Metropolitan Museum late at night confirms ins a peculiar way that they are both very willing to enter into this forced relationship — a thought that Balthazar entertains with glee. He doesn't think that Naomi wanted either of them to actually enjoy being lovers. And they are. Lovers. And enjoying. Balthazar cannot stop himself from smiling at the thought. Oh, he's enjoying, all right. He opens the folder he's been holding on to while lost in thought; a collection of wall paper samples, little strips of fabric and a few pictures of furniture he wants to purchase.

The hall smells of paint and freshly cut wood. The workers are almost done installing the floors and painting the walls, putting up wallpapers and cleaning everything to Crowley and Balthazar's satisfaction. The large mansion is back to its former glory; prettier and more stylish now, though. Crowley's taste is impeccable, and Balthazar admits that he likes that about Crowley too. The King of Hell has style, and if there is something Balthazar likes it is living in it.

Outside it's raining and the open doors let in a delicious scent of flowers and freshly mowed grass. Another content sigh, and Balthazar continues dotting down what needs to be done to finish the entrance hall. He looks into the high ceiling two floors up and ponders for a minute whether they need an antique chandelier or if it'll look better with the outrageously expensive modern Fontana Arte one he saw in one of the glossy magazines that Crowley brought home.

"I'd never thought I'd be able to ask you this, but is it true that you are in flagrante with the king of Hades?" a gruff voice asks, making Balthazar gasp, surprised at the sudden intrusion.

Balthazar turns around so fast he is tipping over a case of Christian Lacroix _Air de Paris_ wallpaper, the black-and-silver rolls spreading over the recently installed mahogany floor. "Castiel?" Balthazar reaches for the angel blade he no longer carries. "You cannot touch me, Naomi will have your grace for it," he says, hoping it's enough to stall Castiel. "You still have one, right?"

"Balthazar, stop. I'm... I'm not here to hurt you!" Castiel holds up both hands. "I heard that you were brought back and I... You are my friend."

"You sodding _killed_ me," Balthazar hisses, nervous anger making him lash out, his power crackling. "Does that seem very friendly to you? What do you want?"

"I came to apologise. I wasn't myself."

Castiel looks apologetic, all right. It's still disturbing how fast his former friend has hunted him down. They, Crowley and he, should never have kept the mansion. Or maybe they should have made it angel-proof. If that hadn't kept Balthazar from his own home, that is. "Apologise? Yeah, that makes sense. Stab an angel in the back and let him die. I'm sure _sorry_ is enough to make anyone forgive murder." Balthazar smiles a tense smile. "The door is that way if you want to leave through it."

"Balthazar, I beg you!" Castiel sounds as pathetic as he looks.

"If it isn't my dysfunctional brother-in-law to be. What a... pleasure." Crowley looks down at them from above.

Castiel and Balthazar are, in Balthazar's opinion, no longer brothers. "He's not my brother," he snaps. "And he's leaving. Now."

Crowley walks down the stairs, slowly. "Castiel, I believe my fiancé said you were on your way out. How — well, I don't think _sad_ is the right word — that you have to cut your visit short."

"Please, Balthazar." Castiel looks like a puppy somebody kicked. "Allow me to tell you how sorry I am. I want to make amends. To set things right between us."

Balthazar _tries_ to be strong, but it's the eyes that do it. He makes a face and sighs. "I'd like that too. If you'll hand me a blade, we can set thing right in a second," he says, expressionless, attempting to hold on to his anger. Castiel's wide-eyed hurt is just as piercing as an angel sword. Oh, damn! He can't. He has only so much strength when it comes to Castiel. "Set things right then. Without weapons. If it can get you to leave sooner rather than later."

"Not too fond of forgiveness, love?" Crowley steps up to Balthazar, resting a hand on his back like he wants to show his support. Balthazar sends Crowley a glance, and gets a wink in return, as if Crowley knows about how difficult it is to deny Castiel anything. Even now, outside the bedroom, Crowley's presence grounds Balthazar and makes him feel cared for and safe. No, Balthazar isn't big on forgiveness when people have stabbed him dead. Then again, Castiel has been his friend almost since the beginning of time. It's a very long time.

"We fought together," Balthazar whispers, although he shouldn't bother. Castiel can hear him anyway. "We were brothers. Friends. Comrades in arms. And yet he killed me." That Balthazar had been selling out his old friend he conveniently refuses to think about.

Crowley sighs, caressing Balthazar's hand. "Darling, you're not... me. I don't do regret or redemption, but even I can see that you have missed him. He's honest, sort of, and I say that despite the fights I had with him. I do... tolerate him. I won't hold it against you if you want to forgive him."

"Yes, you will." His mouth close to Crowley's ear, Balthazar whispers, "You're going to punish me for it later."

"Okay, yes. I will. But you'll enjoy it, so _do_ forgive the winged moron so we can get to the point where I tie you up and whip you good. Ten minutes from now would be perfect."

"I don't want to forgive him! Do I look like bloody Mahatma Gandhi to you?"

"No, you don't look bloody at all, but if you want to try a bit of knife-play, that can be arranged. You might like it." Crowley turns his head and kisses Balthazar on the lips. "On with it. We have a house to decorate, and I have an angel to do evil things to. Don't have all day."

"You cannot torture Balthazar! That's not why I talked-" Castiel closes his mouth as fast as he opened it. "That's not why I came to apologise."

"You what?" Balthazar looks at Castiel with suspicion. "Talked to whom?" He has the feeling that Cas might have let something slip that wasn't meant to slip.

Castiel fidgets, tie suddenly very interesting. It should be, a replacement is due: the rag is an offence to any known sense, fifth, sixth or seventh included. "I came to talk to you. Are you being tortured? You were not meant to be tortured."

Balthazar coughs. If Cas wasn't so annoying, he'd be adorable. "No, Castiel. I'm not being tortured. I- erm-" Balthazar shakes his head. Hopefully he doesn't have to explain to Cas the finer details of the exchange of pain for pleasure that Crowley does so well. "How's Dean?" Balthazar asks, sure it'll make Cas uncomfortable enough to stop asking.

"Dean's-" Cas interrupts himself and points at the marks on Balthazar's neck. "You _are_ being tortured." He frowns and glares at Crowley with an expression of outrage. "That wasn't part of the-"

"Part of what? What do you know that I don't?" Balthazar stares at Cas.

"Nothing! I heard that you were brought back, that's all." Castiel is the poster boy for innocence. He always were, even in the middle of cooking up the most atrocious schemes. Castiel looks like the old Cas again, all strict and warrior-like, as if he's truly appalled by the thought of Crowley being mean to Balthazar. "He still can't torture you!" Cas exclaims indignantly.

"Oh, smite me! It isn't torture, Cas. It's... a game. Perhaps you should get Dean to explain to you. Maybe give you a lesson. I'm sure you'll like it."

"As for lessons... perhaps a brief show and tell will make your friend understand?" Crowley says, sliding his arm around Balthazar's waist, pulling him back against his chest. He moves the hand upwards, two fingers brushing over Balthazar's nipple, peaking under his touch. "Lean back a bit, sweetheart. Let me have you."

Crowley's lips on his neck makes Balthazar moan. It's so wonderfully dirty. Making Cas uncomfortable enough to make him sod off will be the highlight of the day, bugger all decency, not that it ever bothered Balthazar much, being decent. "Mm... yeah... please." Balthazar hisses as Crowley pinches his nipples hard. They are still sore, like his neck. It is instant arousal when Crowley starts working him over with teeth and nails, only made better by Cas's wide-eyed expression of a dawning understanding. "Harder," Balthazar gasps as Crowley tweaks his nipple cruelly. "Make it hurt, please, love." It arouses him that Cas is looking at them, his mouth slack with surprise.

Balthazar mewls softly as Crowley bites down hard on his neck, almost breaking skin. Crowley laps at the bite, then worries the skin again with teeth and lips. Balthazar immediately lets himself fall into the confinements of power and pain that he has come to crave. It's a very human sensation, endorphins making him weak with want and pleasure. He looks at Cas, eyes heavy-lidded and glazed over. He licks his lips. "Can't get enough of this. Of _him_ ," Balthazar breathes, wishing Cas to understand how good it feels to be Crowley's.

Castiel makes a very undignified sound and disappears in a flutter of wings. Another thing to add to the plus side. Together with the fact that Balthazar still hasn't told Cas that he'll forgive him.

Crowley and Balthazar end up on the floor, and Crowley _does_ make it hurt so gloriously good. It's almost not awkward when the team of interior designers arrive to oversee the last of their additions to the living room, finding Crowley and Balthazar naked on the new two-centuries-old Aubusson, Balthazar crying out his orgasm with Crowley's fingers buried deep in his abused arse, Crowley's mouth working his cock eagerly.

They really need more mirrors and a decent love seat in the hall, one Balthazar can sit in, legs spread for Crowley. Perhaps a better table too. The one they have now, an oval Regency mahogany pillar table isn't sturdy enough. Balthazar finds that the floor is a bit uncomfortable. A table would be nicer. He thinks that Crowley, too, would appreciate a horizontal surface above floor level. There's no reason the King of Hell shouldn't have a proper desk to work at.

Balthazar informs his employees of his decisions, furniture-wise, as Crowley helps him stand, kissing his cheek softly, catering to his smallest whim. Like Crowley does every time Balthazar has given Crowley his submission. Damn, his new life is great.

Even better is it that Balthazar has discovered a new amazing kink: he's rarely come harder than during this, being watched by others as he writhes in the throes of passion. And being taken in the hall provides such wonderful possibilities: everybody with a modicum of polite behaviour has to show up at the front door. Balthazar decides that they need the heavy wooden door replaced with one with windows in it.

Perhaps they should throw a party? Balthazar smirks at the thought of how shocked some of the guests will be. And they do have a wedding to celebrate, don't they? Balthazar is sure little says 'welcome to our feast' like the view of an angel of the Lord's orgasmic rapture in the arms of the King of Hell.

Perfect. Utterly, utterly perfect.


	6. Sex, Lies and Mistakes

Yet another week passes in what Balthazar mostly thinks of like marital bliss, although the marriage has yet to happen. With his life calming down comes also time, time to think.

That, Balthazar knows, is not always a good thing. Last time he thought things over, he ended up with contraband and the Heavenly Host at his tail. He'd ended up dead and he really don't want to go there again. That is the idea of this entire ordeal, staying alive. Balthazar has a tiny nagging sensation that something is wrong somewhere. When things look too good to be true, they rarely are. He likes the picture, but it's like having taken the perfect photograph, only to discover that a dog is taking a dump in the background, ruining perfection entirely.

And now this shit with Cas. It might have been wiser to forgive Cas right away instead of teasing him, playing him like he did. Balthazar is still angel enough to react favourably to anyone honestly wanting to redeem themselves, asking for forgiveness for their wrongdoings. He knows he can't stand against Castiel's pleas for long. He doesn't have it in him.

Alone in the library after a delicious dinner, Crowley off to do his duty a few floors below in Hell, Balthazar knows that he has to analyse the situation. He needs to find out what it is that is bugging him. It's like having a small pebble in the shoe. He can walk, but it's irritating.

Sitting in a velvet-upholstered Victorian chaise longue, cuddled up in a luxurious sable plaid, a glass of Champagne ready at the small side table, Balthazar should feel good, but he doesn't. Everything is exactly as it should be: his house is gorgeous, he has a lover who fulfils his every wish, he is going to be married to the highest ranking demon in Hell. His casual handling of heavenly weapons seems to have been forgotten. Castiel has been back to ask for forgiveness. Status, money, a great life. It truly should feel fantastic and all he waits for is the other shoe to drop.

What worries Balthazar the most, however, is that he has given Crowley nearly everything: his affection, his friendship, his trust. Balthazar hopes with every atom of his being that it isn't Crowley isn't in some underhanded way behind whatever it is that causes Balthazar's jittery. Balthazar likes his fiancé. A lot. A lot more than he should. He has reached a point where _like_ might not cover what he feels for Crowley.

He's certain, though, that he will personally kill Crowley if he's fucking with him. Kill him a very unpleasant and time-consuming way.

Balthazar sips some more Dom, looking into the fireplace, staring at the flames. He tries to think about exactly what it is that rubs him the wrong way. Something Cas said that had sounded a bit off, maybe? When Balthazar thinks back at their strange conversation, trying to put two and two together he might not quite get four. He's getting there, helped by yet another glass of Dom Perignon. There is something fishy going on, and if Cas isn't in on it, he _knows_ about it. Whatever _it_ is. Something about torture not being a part of the plan. A plan that Cas had talked to someone about. Cas who came to _set things right between them_. Another cover up? Another game where Balthazar plays Judas and Castiel wields an angel blade?

Where to put Crowley into the equation? Good question.

"Wanna come to bed?" Crowley pops out of thin air in the middle of the library. He looks tired.

Balthazar feels a sting in the heart at the sight of his lover. He truly hopes that Crowley isn't in league with Castiel. That's the problem with grace and goodness: despite being quite the ambiguous character himself, Balthazar has only so much tolerance for betrayal. He knows he can just ask Crowley, but he's not yet ready to hear a truth he doesn't want to hear -- that is, if Crowley is actually hiding something. It has to wait, asking Crowley for the truth.

"Balthazar?"

"No. Not yet. Bed." Balthazar pulls aside the heavy sable plaid, offering Crowley to sit with him. "You look exhausted." Crowley has a few spots of clotted blood on the otherwise so neat suit.

"Management downstairs isn't what it was before the war and the Leviathan. Got it sorted, though."

"Looks like it. Sit. Let me get you a glass of Champagne and some beluga caviare."

Crowley frowns for a second, not used to being the one who is cared for. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Balthazar kisses him on the cheek, leaving him alone with the sable. He walks into the kitchen, well-stocked, of course, by the wonderful chef they stole from the Mandarin Oriental. Their staff of five really is making their household run smoothly. Balthazar makes a tray for Crowley. Caviare. Balthazar prefers river beluga, the Caspian is out of the question; Balthazar will not be an accomplice to the extinction of the white sturgeon. The backside to being who he is. At times his flawed conscience does surprise him. Balthazar adds a few blinis and a small bowl of sour cream and yet another bottle of Dom. He enjoys making food the human way, just like they both like to eat and drink as humans do. Serving food for one's tired lover is an act that Balthazar hadn't thought he would feel so happy about, but he does.

Outside the tall windows the night is heavy with stars. A light breeze carries with it the scent of cool air and sea and the sweetness of grass and flowers. Candles flicker, dancing in the light summer breeze. Crowley, relaxed, looks up and smiles, his pretty mouth so kissable. His eyes shine dark golden-brown in the dim light from many candles. "Thanks, sweetheart." His eyes crinkle at the corners as his tired smile widens, making him look young and happy.

And in that instant, standing with a tray in his hands in the middle of the library, looking down at Crowley, it hits him. That instant Balthazar knows with a deep certainty he had done what he never thought he'd do: he has fallen in love with the man Heaven is forcing him to marry.

Morning sneaks across the sky, grey and hazy. Balthazar stretches languidly, refusing to let go of Crowley. He is still asleep, or as far into it as a demon ever gets. Crowley had been exhausted and worn down, calling forth feelings inside Balthazar that he had long forgotten. It is as if Crowley's fragile vulnerability has opened closed doors to Balthazar's heart, as if he'd opened a door to a clear light that cannot be turned off. Balthazar has been afraid that trusting Crowley would be too dangerous. Instead Crowley has trusted _him_ enough to show himself in this vulnerable state, not on top of everything as he usually is. Not cool and collected and dominant. No, Crowley this night, lets Balthazar see something precious: himself. A tired man in need of tenderness and care, oddly human in his exhaustion.

Protectively, Balthazar tightens his hold on his lover, nuzzling Crowley's neck, breathing in and out slowly, taking in Crowley's scent. Crowley makes a content sound, stretching his neck a bit as if to invite Balthazar to continue. Balthazar's lips turn upwards in a smile that slides over Crowley's skin, then changes into a wet slide of tongue that ends at Crowley's earlobe. Sucking it lightly, Balthazar continues until Crowley lets out a slow, rough moan, the sound of a purring cat, waking up in a sunbeam. "Morning, baby," Balthazar whispers, kissing Crowley as he turns his head to offer up his mouth to Balthazar.

" _Baby_ , now?" Crowley chuckles. "You might be right there, sweetheart. What's three hundred fifty years compared to the beginning of time?"

Balthazar laughs, a throaty, muted laughter that spreads on Crowley's naked skin, a damp vibration. "It's impolite to talk about an angel's age. I think you'll do better if you shut up and let me kiss you some more."

"Not complaining." Crowley's fingers find Balthazar's hand, playfully entangling themselves with Balthazar's finger. "More kissing is fine with me."

Wanting to ensure that every spot of naked skin is properly kissed and nibbled at, Balthazar goes to work. It doesn't take long before Crowley's breathing shifts, becoming erratic little moans. Balthazar loves it, every little harsh sound, every little gasp. "You're gorgeous like this," he tells Crowley, using teeth to leave a vivid mark on Crowley's shoulder.

Hissing at the sensation, Crowley pushes back, rubbing his arse against Balthazar's hardening cock in invitation. "Please, Balthazar?"

Oh, yes! Letting go of Crowley to reach for a bottle of oil, Balthazar's body heats up at the thought of taking Crowley. Making love to him, for that is what it's going to be. With oil-smeared fingers, Balthazar lies down again, lined up behind Crowley's back, as close as he can get, leaning over Crowley, his right hand grabbing Crowley's, once more entangling their fingers. Balthazar can't stand the thought of not touching his lover. Pushing up Crowley's one leg, Balthazar rubs his left hand's fingers against Crowley's opening.

Moaning a broken "yes," Crowley pushes back, letting Balthazar's fingertips slide into him with ease, no resistance at all, as if his body craves the touch. They share a sloppy, slightly awkward kiss, perfect in its imperfection as Balthazar starts opening Crowley. Crowley sighs and makes little pleased sounds. It's obvious that he enjoys it as much as Balthazar does. It's warm and lazy and slow; there is nothing to prove, it just _is_ , this connection between them. It's beyond all the kinky sex they've had. It's just so easy.

Thrusting in and out, rubbing Crowley's prostate, Balthazar soon has his lover moaning loudly. Crowley moves his hips to get more fingers into him, deeper. Crowley's cheeks are flushed, his mouth kissed wet and pink and Balthazar can feel his heart flutter, maybe someone has opened fire on it, for it is as if he _bleeds_ love, as if the feelings that he has for Crowley are spilling over, impossible to stop.

"Oh," Crowley gasps, looking at Balthazar's fingers braided with his. They're translucent, tinted with grace. "Oh, God."

"Shhh," Balthazar moans as the warmth of his grace surges through him, not wanting to hear his father's name spoken in the bedroom. "Oh, fuck!" Biting his lip hard to try and control the uncontrollable, Balthazar slides on top of Crowley, his cock at his opening. He hesitates for an instant, wanting to leave Crowley a choice. It's beyond Balthazar's knowledge, making love like this, his grace spilling over; he has no idea how it will feel for Crowley, not with the light pushing into him.

"Make love to me," Crowley asks. His expression as he turns to look at Balthazar over his shoulder reveals that he is very aware of the distinction between the advanced, deviant fucking and what they are doing this instant. "Want you so badly." Crowley is so aroused that the need he feels is almost too overwhelming, evaporating from him in waves that Balthazar cannot but feel. The need echoes inside Balthazar and he slides into Crowley in one calm, smooth glide. Crowley cries out, his moans turning into sharp little sobs. "More," Crowley begs, moving under Balthazar's lean body. "Oh, Balthazar."

The more he takes the more he needs. Balthazar feels as if they're melting together, pleasure flaring, taking them both high. Again Balthazar pushes his grace into Crowley, making him cry out for more. Despite his pain-filled little moans, Crowley is enjoying it: his cock is hard and pre-come-smeared against the Egyptian cotton sheets. It's cruel and tender and brutal and soft all at the same time. Balthazar is in no hurry. Every move is like waves on a lazy river, going on forever, going nowhere, moving without haste. But their pleasure builds like a dammed up sea; tension and power and unstoppable force waiting for release.

Just as Balthazar thinks he can manage a few more thrusts into Crowley's warm, tight body, he hears them. Words whispered weakly into the pillow. Words he shouldn't have heard. Words that are nothing but Crowley's full surrender.

"Love you," Crowley whispers again ever so quietly, little torn-up syllables disappearing into down and sheets. "Balthazar, I love you."

Balthazar didn't even think that demons knew how to love. He closes his eyes and pulls Crowley with him into an orgasm of blinding intensity.

It is as if an invisible wall between them has been torn down. Balthazar hadn't truly seen that he, until now, has been reluctant when it comes to fully embracing Crowley and the feelings he has for him. He's been wary and careful, true. But with the confirmation of Crowley's love for him, no matter how unintentional the reveal, it's hard to stay even a little detached. Like eager Hellhound puppies Balthazar's feelings have caught up with him, snapping at his ankles, impossible to ignore. It has been a few fun weeks, a holiday on a playground filled with cars and clothes and all sorts of delicacies and deviancies: their private orgy.

But there is a vast difference between being friends who fuck and what they have become. Balthazar is in love with a man who loves him back — that is heaven, despite one being an angel, another a demon. Clearly love doesn't care about that at all. Then again, if a demon is able to fall in love, Balthazar's father certainly works not only in mysterious, but in decidedly incomprehensible and murky ways. Which is fine with Balthazar. As long as he gets his demon and stays alive, he's fine with that.

There's a change in Crowley as well. Not that he's been uncaring before, but there's a quiet confidence to the way he acts. Balthazar notices for the first time when Crowley leans in and kisses Balthazar when they make lunch in the kitchen. They have dismissed their chef and the rest of the staff for the day, both wanting to have the house to themselves. It is as if all the new and fancy stuff suddenly has lost its allure. Just being together — that is what matters most.

They make sandwiches they don't need, walking down to the shore to sit in the late afternoon sun, bringing nothing but water to drink. Everything is suddenly so simple. Sun. The wind in their hair. The rough texture of the old oak that Crowley sits up against. The warmth of his embrace.

Balthazar is content. He's never been content before. He's been clueless, he's been obedient, he's been greedy. He's never been content, but now he is. Resting with closed eyes, his upturned face warmed by the sun, he is relaxed, allowing himself to be vulnerable and open.

"I wonder where Castiel went," Balthazar says, not ready to admit directly that he might have missed his friend, mourning their falling-out. Since everything else seems to fall into place, maybe that is _the_ single problem that still needs solving, Castiel and his sudden appearance and disappearance. "He did ask me to forgive him after all. I do wonder, though, what kind of plans he was talking about when he came here."

"Plans?"

"You know the term _Freudian slip_ , right? I don't think he meant to say anything, but he might have wanted to come clean about it, since he hinted at some kind of agreement between him and Father knows who."

Crowley is quiet for a bit longer than Balthazar finds comfortable.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Balthazar opens his eyes, tilting his head to look up at Crowley. "Please, tell me that you don't know what he was ta-"

"It was Castiel who pointed out to me that Heaven might let you become... available to me, given the right incentive," Crowley replies, uncharacteristically honest. "I happened to mention that I found you fascinating, despite our differences."

"You said you asked for me." Balthazar remembers that well. He'd demanded an explanation the day he'd met with Crowley for the first time. No wonder that Crowley had been reluctant, giving an answer. Balthazar couldn't decide whether to be angry or flattered. "So you were in on it, my resurrection?"

"No."

It is refreshing, Balthazar finds, to get short, direct answers. "Maybe now you'd care to explain? Properly."

"You should ask Castiel about the details. I-" Crowley takes Balthazar's hand, kissing it, leaving the traces of a damp kiss to dry in the sun. "I simply took what I coveted and signed the contract. I secured my kingdom and a consort to go with it, one I already had my eyes on until he was lost to me. That's all. Got more than I bargained for, though."

Oh, Balthazar would call Castiel, all right. There was more to the alliance than what Crowley volunteered and Balthazar felt a growing urge to find out who the genius was who had decided to lure him into this honeyed trap. He didn't mind being trapped with Crowley, but he wanted to know why. He wasn't here by coincidence. "What do you mean, more than you bargained for?"

"I wanted to get to know you even before Castiel stepped in and killed you. You were this gorgeous Judas who made alliances behind my back, the one who dared stand against a seraphim and the King of Hell. And of course your... requisition of the weapons of Heaven... that was admirable. But I told you that already. I had noticed you, although we never met officially. You had such... unused potential, such ambiguity. A most fitting husband for the King of Hell, don't you think? A fallen angel."

"I'm not evil and I am no longer a fallen angel," Balthazar argues weakly. "Really. The Titanic was..." He shrugs. "A minor mistake."

"Mhm." Crowley smirks. "I'm sure."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Okay, not so much a mistake. Anything Miss Dion makes Balthazar want to be bad. Really, really bad.

"I wanted a prince for my kingdom, a consort," Crowley admits. Honesty again. "And what I got instead was _you_. The real you. The one underneath that adorable arrogance and the layers of superiority and sarcasm. You're fan-fucking-tastic, darling."

"Not too bad yourself," Balthazar says, purring as he leans back against Crowley, soaking in his admiration. "You certain it isn't the grace talking?" he asks. It could be, and he wants to be _sure_ that Crowley isn't just infatuated with his new catch and softened by the lingering remains of grace. Balthazar wants those worlds of love spoken aloud, for him.

Crowley merely laughs, a deep, throaty laughter, before he turns Balthazar's face, kissing him sloppily, still tasting of cream cheese and tomatoes. It doesn't matter for the kiss is wonderful.

"Grace and demons are like oil and water, my sweet. You know that. If the mixing of grace and my inner demon had me doing anything at all, except for kissing you, it would have made me scream."

"How did it-" Balthazar attempts, but shuts himself up instead. Maybe he'd rather live in ignorance on that one, now that he thinks of it. Then again, no. "How _did_ it feel?"

"It hurt. Not that much, but it hurt. Like I was burning up from the inside," Crowley says quietly. "Like I had to cling to my meatsuit with everything I had to stay inside the flames." He smiles an almost angelic smile, as if it hadn't been unpleasant at all.

"Hurt... like when you hurt me?" Balthazar suggests, getting the gist of what Crowley means, or at least he thinks he gets it. "When I want you to hurt me?"

"Yes." Crowley sighs deeply, content and spent. "It was fabulous. Brutal and arousing at the same time. Only I can't decide now whether I feel clean from your grace or dirty because you shoved it in me."

Balthazar smirks. "I know you. You like both alternatives. You're nothing if not a hedonist." Leave it to Crowley to get something kinky out of being granted a bit of heavenly grace. "You're incredible."

"Does that make me bad?" Crowley smiles lazily, raising a hand to play with Balthazar's hair..

"No, _you_ make you bad." Balthazar squirms a bit to wrap his arm around Crowley's neck. He presses a kiss to his mouth. "Which is why I like you so much. You're entirely without redeeming qualities, my love."

For a few days, Balthazar puts aside the thoughts about Castiel and his possible participation in the planning of Balthazar's life. He knows he has to speak to Cas about it at some point. He needs to decide whether he will forgive him for his social faux pas — it's not polite behaviour stabbing people in their backs, really, and Cas should know better. But Balthazar is not going to call Castiel tonight, for he has another appointment: an appointment which leaves him naked, standing in the middle of the mansion's hall, his hands with a rope that hangs from the domed ceiling.

It is as if his and Crowley's relationship has moved yet another step forward, one that needs a physical outlet. Balthazar is in love. Crowley's declaration is still hidden, secret, but Balthazar knows. The more he gives, the more he gets: that goes for sex and lovemaking too. A larger love calls for heavier measures, calls for Crowley to take them further out, to brush against the limits of their game.

Balthazar likes the space they create together, exploring the _everything_ that he wanted when he fled from Heaven in the first place.

The sensation of quality leather wrapped around his wrists is a new slice of that everything. The feeling of the new cuffs is pleasant enough. What isn't as pleasant is the throbbing sensation of a plug in his hole and the way his arse stings after Crowley has tested a short riding crop on it.

He's sore already, slightly dizzy from the whipping and the kisses they have shared. He feels as if he's floating, the pain becoming increasingly more distant as Crowley kisses and licks his way over his abused skin. Balthazar looks over his shoulder at Crowley. He pulls the ties, hoping that perhaps they might not be tied as well as only a master of torture in Hell can tie them. His hope shatters when Crowley steps up behind him again. Balthazar pulls with all the strength he possesses, enough to tear apart time, but the ties hold. "Damn," he breathes, knowing that he's entirely in Crowley's power. It's not the powerlessness that bothers him, he's getting used to that and he likes the feeling. It's the fact that it arouses him in this very human way, desire flooding him, rendering him useless and powerless. It makes him jitter like a nervous racehorse. He is not scared of Crowley; he'd not have allowed himself to be tied up if he didn't trust his lover.

No, he's nervous because Crowley is going to take him for the first time. It has taken weeks to get to the point making Balthazar ready. They could could just fuck, break his vessel, sure, and heal it again, but Crowley has argued that it's against the rules. Crowley's rules, but nevertheless. Crowley's cock, Crowley's rules. Fingers, tongue, plugs, Balthazar has been thoroughly fucked with them all. Crowley likes to use toys in Balthazar's arse, loves to lick it and play with it, preparing him for a cock worth selling one's soul for. Not the original, but one carefully selected for size. And it _is_ truly magnificent, on that Balthazar agrees.

"So, sweetheart," Crowley purrs, his erection hard against Balthazar's sore ass. He brushes a warm hand over Balthazar's stomach, infinitely tender. "You still want it?"

"Fuck," Balthazar moans. "Yes, Crowley, please?"

"Safeword. You use it if it becomes too much." Crowley is serious for a moment.

Reining in his arousal for exactly as long as it takes to convince Crowley that he knows that he can end their game if he wants to, Balthazar whispers, "got it."

"Then it's lucky for you that I can't say no to you when you beg so prettily," Crowley says, stepping up to Balthazar. "So you think you're ready for it?"

"God, fuck, yes!" Balthazar is getting desperate. Crowley has used weeks to prepare, now it has to end! Balthazar pulls the ropes again. "Do I look like I wish to stay a virgin for the rest of my life?"

"Not really, no," Crowley laughs and lets his hand skim over Balthazar's tender arse. "You look delectable. Fuckable." Crowley licks a wet trail down Balthazar's neck, making him moan. "You are hardly a virgin just because nobody has fucked you in your deliciously tight arse yet," Crowley growls, rubbing the base of the plug hard. Balthazar gasps as the hard rod presses down on his prostate. "While we're at it," Crowley whispers, unable to keep in a similar moan as Balthazar leans against him, "no, you don't look like you'd like to stay a virgin. Virginal prudes are rarely tied up with a plug in their arse, oil dripping down their thighs, waiting for their lover to fuck them into oblivion."

Playing a bit with the plug, then thrusting it hard inside Balthazar's tight channel, Crowley makes Balthazar cry out; he can't stand it any longer, the exquisite torture. "Then do it!" Balthazar demands. The plug touches places inside him he'd much rather have Crowley's gigantic cock rubbing against. "Shove it in me! Fuck me! _Do_ something! Bloody let me have it!" he cries desperately, wanting his first time to happen right now, before he comes because he simply doesn't have the stamina to hold back. "Please, take me," he sobs, wanting Crowley so badly to make him his. He's falling apart, so lost in Crowley's particular brand of love, that he'll do _anything_ to get more.

"Easy, baby." Crowley's big dick, slick from oil and pre-come, fits perfectly in the crack between Balthazar's cheeks, "We don't want you to tear." He eases the plug out, carelessly throwing it at the antique rug. A greasy flood of oil runs down Balthazar's inner thighs. It's so filthy to be opened like that, so incredibly dirty, and Balthazar wants more. He wants Crowley's come inside him; he wants Crowley to fill him to the brim with come and cock.

Balthazar breathes in, tense from anticipation, as Crowley pulls back, one arm around Balthazar's waist. The rope that has kept Balthazar on his toes goes slack, loose enough for him to stand properly. "Lean forward," Crowley demands, keeping his arm firmly around Balthazar, easing him forward until his hands rest on the new table they've put in the middle of hall for this exact purpose. Balthazar's skin is pale against the dark mahogany, his cuffs the exact same colour as old table's inlaid leather.

"Spread your legs," Crowley orders, pressing Balthazar further down so he can get a hold of the edge of the drum table. "So I can fuck you like you want to be fucked."

Forcing his breathing to become steady and slow, Balthazar obeys. He's rewarded with the relentless pressure of Crowley's cock at his opening. There's a brief pause before Crowley moves, the pressure becoming almost-pain when Crowley finally slides into Balthazar's obscenely stretched and lubed hole. Gasping, Balthazar pushes back, letting Crowley in as easy as possible.

It feels like Balthazar thought it would, just better. It's painful and wonderful. As the thick, hard cock is forced into him, ever so slowly, Balthazar thinks he's going to die from pleasure. It feels like an invasion, as if his body is forced to alter and obey and surrender because Crowley wishes it so. Balthazar lets out a loud hiss. It's so good to have his body taken and used like this. Crowley understands him so well, always giving him what he needs.

When Crowley finally is balls-deep into Balthazar's arse, they are both moaning, Balthazar faint from the intrusion. He's so full, there's pressure everywhere, a sensation-overload so good that he is sure he'll come on the spot if Crowley moves.

Knowing better, or perhaps on the verge of coming himself, Crowley doesn't move. He merely presses his chest to Balthazar's back, his lips skimming over the shell of Balthazar's ear. "Like that, my eager little slut?" Crowley growls, making Balthazar moan at the dirty words. "You want me so badly, don't you, want me to fuck you and fill you up with my come. I think I'll have you tied up when I'm done with you, just to play with your wet hole. Lick my semen out of you. You'd like that, wouldn't you? To have your dirty hole licked? Tell me, baby, that you'd like my tongue up your arse."

"Fuck, Crowley," Balthazar cries, rubbing his own hard dick against the sharp edge of the table. "Yes... yes! I... oh! Fuck!"

"Say it. I want to hear my angel say those exact words." Crowley bites down on Balthazar's neck hard, sharp teeth breaking skin.

Crying out, sobbing from the delicious pain, Balthazar obeys. "Please. I'd like to... I'd love to have you lick my arse. I wanna have your tongue buried deep inside me. Want you to lick me clean." Even the words taste filthy and it arouses Balthazar deeply. Behind him Crowley's breath hitches; it affects him as well. Maybe it's just that he likes to see an angel debauched and corrupted, and who'd Balthazar be if he didn't give his lover what he wants? "Want you to feel you come inside me, want you to take me hard and make me come with your cock so deep in me I can taste you."

Then Crowley lets out a very undignified sound and thrusts in, moaning uncontrollably loud, before he pulls out, teasing a finger over Balthazar's stretched rim, pressing the tip of his finger in alongside his cock before he grabs Balthazar's hips hard, his fingers like steel, digging into Balthazar's flesh.

Balthazar forgets everything about words. "Yes... yes, yes! Fuck me! Dammit, Crowley... fuck, ah, ah! Hurts so good. Oh, now, please." The incoherent babbling turns into sobs and cries as Crowley slams back in, buried once more in Balthazar to the hilt. Crowley moans and bites Balthazar's neck, moving down a bit, still thrusting in and out, relentlessly slow and hard, the table creaking under them.

Crowley licks at Balthazar's shoulder blade, at the exact spot where his wings would be, had he unfolded them. It feels so wrong that Balthazar doesn't think he can hold his orgasm back much longer. "Can't... can't," is all he manages, beyond words.

"Let go, love," Crowley moans and bites down hard on Balthazar's shoulder blade, as if he wants to erase his wings, or devour them, marking Balthazar with the mark of the King of Hell.

Balthazar screams, for there is no way he can hold in the sound. He feels as if he's burning up, surrounded by hellfire. He comes instantly, untouched, not even aware that he's rubbing his dick against the table's leather-clad surface. There is just mind-numbing, wonderful pain and overwhelming pleasure. Crowley's huge cock is forced so deep into him that he can feel nothing but that and the brutal bites that Crowley places on his back. It's pleasure beyond pain, beyond anything Balthazar has ever experienced. Vaguely he registers that Crowley freezes, lets out a snarl and comes, releasing himself into Balthazar's twitching arse. The edge of the table splinters under Balthazar's hands, wood turning into dust. He, too, feels as if he is turning into dust under Crowley's clever hands. He feels like he's made into little specks, dancing in the sun. He floats there for some time, sighing as Crowley kisses his skin, strokes it tenderly, fur-soft caresses to soothe his pain.

All the time Crowley touches him, grounds him with lips and hands. There are kisses on his back, on his hips, on his tied-up hands. Kisses on his sore arse, and then, Father be blessed, a warm tongue entering him, licking at the semen that is dripping from his stretched opening. The warm tongue eases the throbbing pain, making Balthazar sighs as Crowley stabs his tongue deep his arse, licking him out in long, gentle laps.

"Yes, baby, squeeze it out for me, wanna lick you clean," Crowley groans. He sounds as if he is becoming aroused again, moaning against Balthazar's opening. Balthazar doesn't believe there is a chance in hell that Crowley can get it up, not yet; Crowley is as spent as he is. But Crowley's arousal makes Balthazar sigh, wanting his lover to take him again, to fuck him raw and open, fucking into his abused body, making it hurt so gloriously good. This kind of torture cannot satisfy Balthazar's hunger. Nothing can. He doesn't think he'll ever get enough of Crowley.

Which is good, because he intends to spend eternity with him.

A sudden movement makes Balthazar tense. "Dean Winchester!"

Crowley stops immediately, carefully extracting himself from Balthazar's dripping arse, reacting instantly and without hesitation on the words they have agreed upon. "You okay, love?"

The worry in Crowley's voice is adorable. Not that Balthazar thought that Crowley wouldn't react to the safeword, but still. Only the cause of Balthazar's exclamation isn't discomfort or overstepped boundaries. Their safeword isn't as safe as they thought. "I'm fine. And it's Dean. The real Dean. And his pet angel."

In front of them, not having bothered with the front door, stands Dean Winchester and Castiel, both as flabbergasted as one becomes when one walks in on people having sex.

"What the hell?" Crowley gets up from between Balthazar's legs. "Sorry, sweetheart," he says almost inaudibly and wipes his mouth. "Let me deal with those idiots."

Since Balthazar is still tied up and smeared in come and oil, he's fine with that. "If you came for the live show, may I suggest one of the bars downtown?" Balthazar snaps, mostly because he'd like to get back to having delightfully deviant sex with his lover. "Oh and, Castiel, before you ask: I am not being tortured."

Dean makes a gagging sound. "Yeah, right. Because this is possibly the most disgusting thing I've ever- Urgh." Dean turns to Cas, making a face. "Let's get out. Now."

"Dean, wait." Castiel puts his hand on Winchester's arm. "Why is it disgusting? Balthazar says he is not being tortured. How can it be disgusting if he asked Crowley to do it? He really isn't being tortured, is he?" Castiel goes on, obviously fascinated with the scene. "I think it's like on TV. Those films you like to watch. There was one with a man who tied a girl up, too, after he'd spanked her. And you said that we could-"

"Ew, Cas! No!" Dean blushes, perhaps revealing a bit more than he'd like about the nature of his relationship with Balthazar's brother. "Stop asking questions about that sort of thing!"

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Crowley says politely "This is not a display for your entertainment, and our private life is not up for debate. So would you mind-" Crowley raises his voice before he bellows, "-to bloody sod off before I bloody kill you!"

"I will not leave before I have inquired about Balthazar's well-being," Castiel says stubbornly. "And neither will Dean."

"Dude," Dean growls indignantly, looking longingly at the front door. "I would like to be somewhere else. Oregon, perhaps. Or year 2007, where this has yet to happen."

Balthazar finds Dean Winchester both annoying and amusing. It wasn't exactly what he had in mind when he wanted a bit of exhibitionism thrown into the mix, but the look at Winchester's face is precious, if not worth having ruined the aftermath of fantastic sex for. Balthazar decides to taunt Dean, just because he can.

"Would you mind untying me, darling?" he says, looking up at Crowley with the most mischievous expression. "Maybe find me a robe." Balthazar lets his eyes slide demonstratively down Crowley's naked chest. "And one for yourself. I think our guests are a bit repressed when it comes to the naked human body. They probably don't have much experience."

"I'm not repressed," Dean growls sullenly. Might be true, since the boy's busy looking at Crowley's cock. Balthazar understands. It's a piece of art, even in its spent and half limp state. It doesn't keep him from feeling very possessive, both about the cock and the man it is attached to. Winchester can look at Castiel's cock if he's so interested in them.

"Not getting any just yet?" Balthazar asks Dean snidely as Crowley unties him and helps him stand. Not waiting for a reply, he lets out a content sigh when Crowley pulls into his arms. He turns his back on the intruders, looking into Crowley's eyes for a few seconds, lost in how much he wants him. "Thanks," Balthazar murmurs, unable to stop himself from kissing Crowley.

Castiel makes a choking sound. "Your back, Balthazar! You _are_ being tortured!"

Crowley laughs loudly and disappears, probably to find robes for them both.

"What? No." Balthazar shrugs, immediately regretting it. The bite marks, of course. "I'm Crowley's. He likes to make sure there is no doubt about that," Balthazar explains. "You should get Dean to do the same; it's intense. Damned good." Balthazar turns and points over his shoulder. "Right where the wings-"

"Yes, and that was just the most appalling thing you could have ever shared. Could we... not talk about your bedroom habits, please?" Dean steps forward. "I do remember how to make an angel disappear, Balthazar."

"And just as I started to wonder why we never invite anyone to our home." Crowley pops back, dressed in a black Ralph Lauren velour robe. He hands Balthazar his; an antique French silk robe, embroidered with birds. It's the wings. Balthazar likes them.

"I think Winchester may be afraid we're corrupting his angel," Balthazar says, noting the way Castiel takes in the scene. Intense curiosity. Dean Winchester will be in for a ride later, Balthazar is certain. If the two idiots have made it beyond kissing. Dean and Denial make a close, if not quite appropriate couple.

"I think you may be right," Crowley says, getting a glare from Dean. "Now, if you two gentlemen will enter into our living room, we'll be with you in ten minutes." Crowley points towards the room in question. "A good long fuck really requires a shower afterwards," he says, smirking as it elicits the intended effect: Dean Winchester looks nauseous and angry. Perfect. If Balthazar could possibly be more in love with Crowley than he already is, Crowley's delightful arrogance would have made him fall even deeper.

Ten minutes later they are both dressed and seated in the comfortable Le Corbusier sofas, being served by their butler. Coffee for the three of them and beer for Dean Winchester.

Dean eyes the imported English ale with some suspicion but takes a swig anyway.

"Is there any particular reason that you keep coming back, Castiel?" Balthazar asks, not caring to be polite. "And did you have to bring... that? He nods in Dean's direction. "Usually when Winchesters are involved somebody is getting hurt. I'd not want that to happen to Crowley, or more importantly, I won't want that to happen to me." Balthazar glares at Dean. "Do I make myself clear?"

Dean huffs and nods. "Cas asked me to go with him. I didn't come here to kill you. Maybe next time? Don't wanna disappoint you."

"And you always do what Castiel asks you. Right." Crowley looks at Dean disbelievingly. "And the reason that you found it appropriate to interrupt me and my lover in the middle of our... recreational exercise?"

Dean laughs. It sounds like he's about to throw up. "Recreational exercise? It looked like a BDSM scene to me, but you can of course call it whatever you like. Not that I liked the sight, no matter what you call it. Some sexual pract-."

"Sssh," Balthazar hisses. "There are children present." He looks at Castiel. "Or sensitive minds."

"Dean explained it to me," Castiel says, blushing slightly, seemingly very interested in the hem of his trench coat. "It is not torture."

"Dean explained it to you? How good of him." Balthazar cuddles up against Crowley. No, it really isn't torture at all. What's torture, though, is that they are not in bed, doing wonderfully nasty things to each other. Crowley wraps his arm around Balthazar's waist, pinching the sensitive skin right over Balthazar's hipbone through the fabric of Dolce & Gabbana jeans he's wearing. Balthazar shifts, restless, making a small moan, meant only for Crowley.

Dean drinks some more beer and Castiel fills his coffee cup to the brim with organic milk, fidgeting. They are both quiet a bit too long. Maybe the explanation from Dean has been followed by a practical lesson; Castiel's lips look suspiciously red and moist. It's highly likely for Castiel blushes even more than before. He clearly understands why Balthazar shifts as if he's a bit uncomfortable. Which he is not. On the contrary.

Silence stretches out. Finally Castiel empties his coffee cup and looks at Balthazar. "I was worried. I came to make amends," Castiel says almost shyly. "I shouldn't have killed you, Balthazar."

"You got that right." Balthazar can't keep Castiel dangling for much longer. He can hold a grudge, all right, only he doesn't want to. He loves Cas best of all his many brothers and sisters.

"I... I'd like you to forgive me," Castiel pleads. "I thought if I brought you back that you'd forgive me.

"Do I come off as stupid to you, Cas? I _think_ I get that now."

"Sorry." Castiel has that kicked-puppy look again. "Let me explain, please, Balthazar. I missed you."

"Today, right?"

Castiel looks relieved. "The treaty. You fell because of the civil war. Because I failed you. And then I thought... If Heaven and Hell would assume the obligations of a treaty there would be peace, and you would not be led into temptation and fall again. Naomi... she asked what I wanted to do to keep the peace between the realms. And I... I suggested to her that she could give you a chance to redeem yourself by being a part of that. I begged her to bring you back so that you could live among us again. When Crowley signed the contract he said that-"

Castiel's eyes are wide and innocent. He is telling the truth and it makes Balthazar turn cold with realisation. "Wait... What?"

"But I told her that I didn't want you hurt," Castiel rambles on, making it difficult for Balthazar to make any sense of what he's saying. "Crowley... he wanted you, and he swore he wouldn't torture you, he said that he'd be good to you if only he could have you for his own."

"Excuse me?" Balthazar freezes. He might be jumping to conclusions, but it sounds quite like his best friend and his lover are in league, as if they are the ones who made up the conditions of the potentially fatal the deal with Naomi.

"Stop." Crowley lets go Balthazar, his fists clenched. "Castiel, don't. That's not how it we-"

"Excuse me!" Balthazar repeats, this time loudly and angrily. He gets up so fast that the cup he's been drinking from tips over the edge and lands on the Kerman vase rug, coffee pooling around his feet. "What the _fuck_?" 

His eyes turn into narrow slits as he glares at Crowley. "You told me you knew about the alliance. I knew that you talked to Cas about it. And now it turns out that the two of you actually planned the treaty and my resurrection and the trap I'm caught in? You both knew what Naomi would do to me if I didn't roll over and accept, and neither of you thought it was wrong? You encouraged her, all the time pretending that you were at odds, and now it turns out that you're actually bosom friends?" Balthazar feels something wet at the corners of his eyes. Angrily he wipes them before he realise that he's crying. His heart feels as if it has turned to ice. His best friend and the man he thought loved him have betrayed him. They are traitors, Judases, collaborators.

He's been fooled, coerced into a marriage he doesn't want. He's being torn into pieces as they speak, ruined by the deep betrayal of his friend and his lover.

If Castiel and Crowley wanted revenge for what he did to them before Castiel killed him, they have succeeded.

Balthazar points accusingly at Castiel. "So you think betraying me is to set things right? So that you can have your redemption, sending me to suffer an eternity in Hell with a husband who bought me with lies and deceit? I thought you were my friend," he says, not even able to make himself sound angry. He feels cold as ice. Frozen. "And you..." Balthazar forces himself to look the King of Hell in the eye. "I fell in love with you. I gave you my trust. I'd have given you everything. And you betrayed me even before you knew me! Even before I was brought back to life, you accepted that I would be killed if I denied you. I suppose it was your idea, you lying sack of shit!" Balthazar cannot stomach the hurt. He needs to get away from this, from the people who stabbed him in the back. "I... I can't... We're done."

"No!" Crowley stands, too, clearly angry. His eyes flash red, the tell-tale sign of the demon his meatsuit harbours. "Please, Balthazar."

On the bottom line, Balthazar is an angel, a proud warrior of God. That his love and trust have been killed in one brutal blow feels as if his grace has been ripped out of his body, as if the wings have been pulled from his back. There is so much pain. Maybe that is what it feels like, to love someone more than life itself. All that he has left now is his pride. He will rather go willingly to his death than to enter into a marriage with the demon who has betrayed him so cruelly. No blow, no matter how hard, could hurt more than this. His heart is shattered and he doesn't think it will ever be whole again.

There is but one truth left: In three days the month he was given is over and he must die. Somehow it feels like a relief that the pain will end so soon.

"We never stood a chance." Balthazar looks at the man who was supposed to be his husband, the man he has fallen in love with and he can't stop the tears he's been trying to hold back. "We should have known better. And you should have known better than to betray me. I guess you never get too old to learn." Reaching out, Balthazar caresses Crowley's cheek one final time. His bleeding heart aches unbearably. "Goodbye."


	7. Hours at the Heartbreak Hotel

Around him New York is living and breathing. It's a bright day, a great day, sunny and warm. Behind the closed curtains of the Mandarin Oriental suite, misery is hiding behind a wall of demon traps and Enochian sigils. Balthazar curls around himself, hiding his puffy, tear-streaked face in the blanket he weakly has pulled from the sofa down to the spot on the floor where he's lying. He's a small island of pain in a city of sun and summer. Oh, Crowley is indeed a master of torture. No one could have thought up a more cruel and painful torment that the one Balthazar is going through. His heart has gone to pieces, his trust ripped apart, violated and ruined. He has nothing left but an emptiness that is so deep and cold and vast that the entire universe could sink into it and die.

He breathes, for sobbing and crying is impossible without air. Every breath is a piercing dagger, every second ticking by makes him want to scream. Every little piece of time without Crowley is like an eternity of pain. It is life without hope, breathing without living. Balthazar never thought it would be like that, that love could be a weapon. But he has been cut down by it, left useless and weakened, not even able to go to Naomi and ask her to let him die before his time is up.

He will lie here until she comes to kill him. He will gladly open the door and let her in, tearing down the warding symbols for her. He'll pray for her to be early so she can release him from this misery sooner.

Because Balthazar knows now how Hell must feel. And Hell, the real Hell, is life without Crowley. There is a reason that angels aren't supposed to fall in love: it hurts to the core, dissolves what they are, kills mercilessly when love goes to pieces.

He doesn't know how long he's been lying like a lump of concentrated sorrow and tears when the radio turns itself on. The windows shatter. At first he doesn't listen. It's noise, something that doesn't concern him. Then the words start to worm their way into his mind. It's angels broadcasting, and the messages are disturbing: The King of Hell has waged war on Heaven. If Castiel the seraph is not handed over to him within three days, the archangel Michael will be freed from his cage. A bounty of ten thousand souls is offered for information that leads to the whereabouts of the angel Balthazar, or twenty thousand souls for Balthazar, unharmed, delivered into the hands of the King of Hell within three days. The King of Hell offers ten thousand souls for the seraph Castiel, dead or alive.

Another war. Balthazar can't be bothered. If Crowley and Naomi want to fight, let them. Throw Michael into the mix for all Balthazar cares. It's more than enough that Balthazar has three days left to live. Another apocalypse hits and the world goes under? He won't be here to see it.

He pulls his mourning tight around him, letting it cover him entirely. It separates him from the world outside, from the war and from the hope that things could have been different. Everything is dark. There is no guiding light. 

The sun goes down and night approaches, and Balthazar still lies caught up in his sorrow. He doesn't move. It is too painful.

The moon moves across the firmament. Cars pass by below. Humans live and breathe. There's a couple in the room next to his suite, making love, taunting him unconciously. Businessmen putter about in the rooms downstairs. Children and parents and lovers and old people live and breathe and kiss in the houses surrounding the park. They sleep and make love and wake up and live their short lives, entirely unaware that an angel is dying nearby, dying gracelessly in a stupid hotel suite in a stupid hotel for the most stupid reason ever invented: death by falling in love.

The sun creeps over the horizon, chasing the moon and the night away. Nothing has changed. It's still the same pain, the same sadness, the same solitude. It doesn't matter.

The angel radio turns on again. Balthazar doesn't want to listen but he can't shut it out entirely.

 _The seraph Castiel has given himself up to Crowley, King of Hell_ , it says, repeating the message every other minute. Balthazar hisses angrily at the voice and at Castiel's stupidity. He doesn't want to know anything about anyone. He doesn't want to feel responsible for any of it. And despite the heartbreak he does feel responsible. Nothing is so bad it can't be made worse by adding guilt.

It's Castiel's fault.

Innocent, wide-eyed Castiel who will now be in the hands of the King of Hell and his chief torturer. Balthazar knows exactly why Castiel is sacrificing himself. Redemption. Protection. His brother was always a naive idealist. Castiel has so much love for the world, for Heaven and for humans. Clearly for Dean Winchester as well, since Castiel for the umpteenth time in a few years is trying to save Earth for his human.

Then it hits Balthazar, his moment of understanding. He sits up, legs crossed, staring at nothing. This is Castiel's attempt at redeeming himself. Cas said he wanted to make up for the things he did during the civil war, for what he did to Balthazar. Castiel has always been honest, except when he was fighting to keep Heaven from falling apart. Which in itself is fair enough: Balthazar wasn't exactly telling the truth himself at that time. Castiel has given himself up to Crowley, knowing his fate. And Crowley is tearing apart Heaven and Earth for Balthazar's sake.

Why?

Suddenly it sounds highly unlikely that Cas is in league with Crowley. Crowley wouldn't have put out a bounty on Castiel in that case, would he? Balthazar shakes his head as if to clear it of the cobwebs of pain and sadness. Now, why would the two idiots fight if they were plotting against him from the beginning? Balthazar knows Castiel well enough to know that he is always trying to do what he thinks is best. Good intentions. Enough of them to pave the road between Heaven and Hell if they were bricks. He means well, Cas.

Crowley, on the other hand... there is nothing he wouldn't do. But he promised Balthazar that he'd never lie to him, and-

And then Balthazar realises that it is neither Cas, nor Crowley who made mistakes.

"You didn't know, Cas," Balthazar says aloud. "You stupid, infantile _idiot_! You didn't know that Naomi threatened to kill me, did you?. And now Crowley thinks you did, doesn't he? That it was your idea? He thinks that it was your plan all along." Balthazar groans. This is a bigger mess than he thought. And what's worse, it's _his_ mess. Because he acted so rashly, he's the reason that Crowley wants to kill Castiel for something Cas didn't do.

Balthazar moves to sit on his knees, shards of glass strewn across the carpet. He closes his eyes, searching for a quiet place that allows him to think clearly. He goes over things again. If Castiel didn't know, and Crowley attacked him, then Crowley didn't know about Naomi's plan, either. That is the only logical deduction if Castiel's imprisonment in Hell is going to make sense. And Crowley... he doesn't trust Castiel. Crowley doesn't know Cas, not like Balthazar does. Crowley probably didn't interrogate Castiel about the circumstances. He just assumes that Castiel is guilty.

Again trying to make sense of everything, Balthazar thinks about the contract he signed. It was made very clear that it was either marriage or death. If he refused, he'd been killed. It wasn't hidden or printed in tiny letters or obscured by flowery phrases. Balthazar frowns. He can't remember Crowley ever mentioning that fact. Pursing his lips, deep into thought, Balthazar wonders why. Crowley always reads everything in a contract, including the stuff that's written in small print and between the lines. It is as if the death threat never existed, except in Balthazar's imagination.

"And if it doesn't exist?" Balthazar scratches his chin. He needs to find the contract that Crowley put his signature on, Crowley's copy. Balthazar wants to see with his own eyes the terms of Naomi's and Crowley's agreement, wants to know for sure precisely what Crowley signed up for. Balthazar doesn't know what Naomi did to him or to Crowley, but if he finds out that something is fishy, Naomi better take cover.

Getting up from the floor is harder than he thought, the burden of loss heavy. Balthazar does it anyway, because the hope he has lost flickers again. A small flame, but it is there. He sighs deeply, realising that he stinks. He needs a shower and fresh clothes before he makes his move. He needs to get out of here and act. And when he does, he will buttfuck destiny and take his life back. If there is the slightest chance Crowley is innocent, if there is the smallest possibility that Balthazar hasn't ruined their relationship by being too hasty and too stupid, then he will take the chance, pride be damned. He will crawl on his knees to beg Crowley for forgiveness, if needed.

Naomi, on the other hand? If she's the cause of all this misery, Balthazar will, when he gets the opportunity, rip her apart and make sure she'll be cast back on Earth as a human, stripped of grace and power. He laughs aloud, a dark sound tinged with bitterness. He has changed, he knows he has. Love might have changed him, but he is not beyond feeling petty and vengeful. Not when it comes to Naomi. She has hurt him and the two men he cares about most in the universe, his father not included. Balthazar will have his revenge.

He raises his head proudly before he grabs the phone and calls the reception, ordering whatever decent clothes available from one of the nearby boutiques.

There's a nice Dolce & Gabbana bag outside the suite's door when he is done showering.

The mansion is empty. Even their demon butler has disappeared, he's probably gone with Crowley to Hell. The kitchen is cold; there's still left over food rotting on the work-top. The cup Balthazar dropped yesterday still lies on the floor, the Kerman ruined by the coffee. For once, Balthazar couldn't care less about the destruction of possessions he had used valuable time to personally steal from a museum. He couldn't care less if the entire house had burned to the ground as long as he gets his lover and his friend back.

Balthazar shrugs and walks through the corridor into the library. His desk is a mess, but he knows exactly where to look. The scroll Naomi handed him is in the top drawer; the only item it contains. He grabs the scroll and throws it on the nearby sofa before he turns to Crowley's neatly organised workspace. Everything is lined up as if Crowley had used a ruler. Balthazar leafs through papers and files until he finds a thick document file. He opens it. The text is written in Enochian. The treaty. Another minute and Balthazar triumphantly pulls out a scroll similar to his own. He takes both the scroll and the file with him, heading for the sofa. He sits, lining up the documents on the coffee table. He opens the treaty first. It isn't for his eyes, but he needs to look it over. He is dead anyway if he doesn't solve the conflict between Crowley and himself, so see if he cares.

There is little of interest. About his own role it says nothing, only that an angel must marry a citizen of Hell to ensure the alliance. He's a hostage, basically, for the behaviour of other angels and it is Naomi who sold him out. Apart from that, it is the usual peace treaty bullshit, a long list of good intentions that last only until one oversteps the thin line between truce and war. As it is, with a war starting, the treaty is worth less than a roll of toilet paper and it has more crap smeared on it. Balthazar carelessly throws the treaty on the floor, instead opening the two scrolls that contain his and Crowley's signed agreements. Balthazar goes through his own copy first. It's clear that Crowley has had a hand in the creation of the contract, Balthazar knows him well enough to recognise his style.

Lining the contracts up next to each other, Balthazar skims the documents again. Then he frowns. He gets up, looking for a proper spot, free of furniture. Then he rolls out the many feet of paper on the floor, carefully placing them next to each other for comparison. One seems a bit longer than the other, but that might be a coincidence. Then again, remembering who he's dealing with, perhaps not. This time Balthazar is careful. One by one he compares the paragraphs.

And then he sees it.

He looks from Crowley's contract to his own and back. Something is missing. He looks again, trying to localise the exact sentence, for it is but little more than that, he is certain.

_No later than the thirtieth day of June, Balthazar, angel of the Lord, must enter into marriage with a citizen of Hell, chosen for him by Crowley, King of Hell._

That part is in Crowley's copy too. Balthazar reads on.

_If he refuses to do so, he must give himself up to Naomi, Chief Administrative Officer, the Heavenly Office of Administration. Balthazar, angel of the Lord will shortly thereafter be destroyed._

He looks again. The passus is not there. Not in Crowley's copy of the contract. The last line.

It. Is. Not. There.

He picks up the scrolls and puts them aside, leaving them on the side table next to the sofa.

Crowley doesn't know. And Castiel couldn't have told him, for Castiel doesn't know, either. Balthazar closes his eyes, trying not to cry again. He has cried so much that he cannot possibly have any tears left. He empties his heart and mind of any feelings. He needs to think this through. Crowley doesn't know.

Crowley is innocent.

Crowley was telling the truth all along. Now Balthazar has to deal with the fact that he managed to ruin the perfect relationship he had. He violated the trust that Crowley put in him. Oh, Father! He has ruined everything by being too hasty, too unforgiving, too afraid to trust his own instincts and the man he loves.

Somehow he should be elated. The contract isn't valid. Crowley will be able to pull it apart in five seconds: even a child could prove that Naomi has been fiddling with it. It is void, cancelled even before it is final. Balthazar doesn't have to marry to stay alive; there is no angel in their right mind who will hunt him down after he lodges a formal complaint against Naomi and her appalling swindle.

He's free.

It was all he wanted, freedom. Only now it doesn't matter. Because being free also means that he'll be without Crowley. Balthazar can keep his pride, but he will lose his lover, the only man he has ever loved. Freedom suddenly doesn't look so interesting, not without love. Crowley is _the one_. Balthazar might find another lover, but it won't matter. From what he knows about angels, they fall in love once and then never again. True to the death. It's really annoying, Balthazar finds, since everything was much easier when he loved no one but himself.

On the bottom line he's not free at all. The entire mess is a one way street that only leads to Balthazar grovelling and begging and being on his knees — if Crowley is willing to talk to him, that is. Demons aren't really that forgiving and the king of Hell... Not so much. Crowley doesn't do forgiveness. But Balthazar knows that he needs to try. Hiding his head in his hands, he groans. Taking the blame for their fallout really isn't that pleasant. "Father, this _sucks_ ," he murmurs.

A low sound, the scraping of a heel over the floor makes him startle.

"Don't move!" The words are low and icy and the blade on his skin cold.

Oh, delightful. Things obviously _can_ get worse. "Dean." Balthazar looks at the angel sword Dean is holding. The tip feels sharp and deadly against his chest. "But of course. _Mi casa e su casa_."

"Castiel. Where is he?"

"Great. A clueless Winchester. Never had one of those before. And here I thought I had to wait until Christmas to get one of my own. My friends will be so envious."

"Balthazar, I'm gonna kill you. If it hadn't been for you, Cas would still be with me. Where is he?"

Wrinkling his brow, Balthazar doesn't care to hide his surprise. "He didn't tell you? No, of course he didn't, because you'd have made him abandon the idea before he'd thought it through."

"Cas disappeared, like, a second after you ran off in a rage, and I was left with a furious Crowley. Man, I tell you, when he gets angry... I had to douse him with holy water."

"Is he all right? Crowley?" For the first time, Balthazar's anxiety comes through. "Dean, please?" Balthazar left his pride on the glass-littered floor in Mandarin Oriental so he isn't too proud to beg. "I know where Cas is. I mean, I don't know where he went, but I know where he is now. I'll help you. I swear on my father's name."

"Oh, that's fine then. Because you never lied before." Dean presses the tip of the angel blade up under Balthazar's jaw. "Spill."

"On my _father's_ name, Dean. I assume that you know what that means. The angel radio has been broadcasting for the last twenty-four hours. Crowley has declared war against Heaven. Cas has gone to Hell as a hostage to appease Crowley."

Dean pales. "To... Hell? Why?"

"Because of a stupid misunderstanding. Castiel is probably trying to prevent the war from happening. And he is trying to redeem himself for just about anything he has ever done to anyone. He's trying to help me so that I'll forgive him, I think. It's all my fault." Balthazar pauses. The taste of defeat and improving self-insight is bitter. "I should have trusted him. I should have trusted Crowley, too." Balthazar holds up a hand to stop the outraged outburst that he knows will come. "The Crowley I know is not... He's different, Dean. I do trust him, and I forgot that he promised me his trust and his love. That was my mistake and not the only one I made." Balthazar makes a face. It hurts to admit that he screwed up majorly.

"So you and Crowley are not just in it for the deviant sex?" Dean snorts. "You surprise me. I really thought that you were just joking about liking each other. Now, that we're done oversharing can we get to getting Cas back?" He pushes the angel sword forward, deep enough for Balthazar to hiss in pain. Dean looks scared and determined. Dangerous.

"You _are_ in love with him," Balthazar concludes, no malice intended. "You're in love with my brother."

Dean removes the blade. "Were you dropped head-first on the floor as a fledgeling or what? Of course I'm not-"

"Oh, come on. I have eyes."

Dean isn't that easily fazed. "None of your business. Let's get the hell out of here and take the elevator downstairs. Sam's outside in the Impala. I'm sure he'll be delighted to see Lucifer again. From outside the bars, that is."

Despite Dean's bickering about angel mojo and zapping from here to there, containing far too much information about the human peristaltic system — Dean's peristaltic system to be precise — Balthazar moves them to Wyoming in an instant. The Devil's Gate is the easiest way in. Angels have forced their way through it before. Dean should be the first to know since the Heavenly Host laid siege on Hell to rescue his soul and pull him out.

It isn't as difficult to open the gate as Balthazar had thought. It is, however, a bit more difficult to close it behind them. Only a few demons manage to escape, fleeing from Balthazar's angelic presence as if he was spreading a variety of the Black Death aimed solely at demons. The Winchesters need something to do with their measly lives, so Balthazar doesn't bother stopping the escapees. Balthazar wants to go to the centre of Hell as fast as possible so that he can win back his lover. And if he can get Cas out, too, Balthazar will be a happier angel. Not that it currently takes much, since he is as far from happy as anyone can be.

They leave the gates and step into an endless corridor, all neon lights and clean, white walls. There are hundreds of doors and none have any handles. A loudspeaker calls out numbers and names, demanding that this person or that must go to a certain room number. Souls are milling around in panic, trying to get into their designated room, without any luck. As Balthazar is staring at a door with the number 2857 on it, the number changes. Now it's 832045. 

"Erm, interesting idea," Sam says. "That's the most damned frustrating thing I've seen. It's cruel. Crowley _is_ quite inventive, I'll give him that."

"It's Hell," Dean says. "And it was worse before Crowley took over." He still look pale and uncomfortable, being back. No wonder.

Balthazar stops and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, feeling a bit sorry for the boy. Forty years in Hell are, pun intended, hell. "I promise that I won't leave you down here, no matter what."

"That makes me feel so much better. I've noticed how you always keep your promises." Dean snorts.

Dean is right. Balthazar hasn't been that reliable, not that he'd ever admit that to the Winchesters. "I owe it to Castiel to save you if you can't get out yourself. I hate this. I've never been indebted to anyone."

"You've changed," Sam says. "For a moment there I thought you actually meant it."

"Unfortunately, I actually do. Come on, can't stand here all day. We have a war to stop."

They continue down the wide corridor, ignoring the wailing and the frustration of the tormented souls. The air smells of chlorine and detergent, as if any signs of warmth or life have been washed away. They walk for what seems like hours, only Balthazar is aware that time here isn't like time on Earth. He is beyond time, of course, but the Winchesters aren't. He tries to keep track of human time, estimating that they've been moving through Hell for half an hour.

It's a wonder that they haven't yet been approached and it isn't exactly surprising when a slew of demons comes charging around a corner. They are led by a yellow-eyed demon. Higher ranking officer, then. Balthazar isn't impressed. He has seen worse. Usually with Castiel to cover his back and with the Garrison to back them up, but really... is that all Crowley can manage?

"'kay, boys. Ready?"

Sam and Dean step up to him, Sam with the serrated demon knife in hand, Dean with Castiel's angel blade drawn. Oh, they're ready. Balthazar takes a deep breath, mentally checking that he still got a pair. He can't appear weak to demons. He is not going to heap shame on his husband-to-be. So this is it. If he wants to win Crowley back he can't step back, can't act like the opportunistic self-preserving angel he usually is. He reaches inside, drawing power from his grace. He certainly can fight if need be. Millennia as a warrior of God is not for the faint of heart.

Balthazar's appearance seems to grow in size. Nearby souls throw themselves down, cowering at his feet as he straightens up and glares at the group of demons. He unfolds his wings, darkening the bright corridor with their shadow, impossibly large. He raises a hand, his grace shining brightly, making his wings shimmer in bronze and silver, visible to only himself. "Kneel," he yells, his voice echoing between the naked walls. "I am Balthazar," he states proudly, his face strict and fierce, marble white in the light from his grace. "I am Balthazar, Angel of the Lord, warrior of the Heavenly Host's First Garrison, brethren of Castiel the seraph and prince consort to the King of Hell. Kneel before me or perish!"

The demons scatter as fast as their legs and other body parts can carry them. Some of the stronger ones disappear into thin air with their vessels. A few stay back, kneeling in front of Balthazar. The yellow-eyed demon falls down on one knee, looking at Balthazar without fear. "Consort. Our king awaits you." The demon probably hopes he will be the one to cash in the bounty, but he'll soon be the wiser.

Balthazar acknowledges the greeting with a nod. "Up. Lead the way. I wish to speak with Crowley immediately." Balthazar doesn't retract his wings, nor does he ease the expression of righteous anger that lingers on his face like an immovable mask.

"Time for grand gestures, hm?" Dean sounds decidedly snide.

Turning around, staring at the Winchesters, Balthazar can't stop himself from smiling tersely. "Bite me. See if you can do better. It worked. A bit exaggerated, but it worked."

"It _was_ a nice touch," Sam says. He was always the clever one. "Especially the part about you being a warrior."

"I was, Sam. For millennia, I fought alongside Castiel," Balthazar explains. "The First Garrison was legendary. Like your Marines. With more swords and wings, though."

"We... didn't know that." For the first time the Winchesters sound slightly impressed. They should be. Not that Balthazar will ever go back, but he was once a faithful and true warrior of the Lord. Before he decided that there were more important things in life than war. Freedom, for instance. Ironic, now, that he is up to his ears in war, actually trying to stop it, paying for it with the freedom he tried so hard to keep. Obviously he's getting soft and stupid, but he can't be bothered to care as long as he gets Crowley back.

They follow the yellow-eyed demon through what feels like miles of corridors. Balthazar is painfully aware that they are in mortal danger, even though they pass through the halls of Hell without anyone approaching them. It's a relief. Crowley is strong and Balthazar doesn't have the power to fight him alone if Crowley insists taking his revenge out on him. Crowley's generals are too powerful for Balthazar to take down alone. A few maybe, but not all of them at once. Luckily Balthazar is very good at running away and he will do so if needed. He scans the surroundings as they walk, ready to flee with the two Winchesters. He can always come back with reinforcements so that he can get Castiel out. Yeah, Balthazar decides, he is getting old and soft, thinking of others before himself. This level of stupidity and sentimentality is likely to get him killed if Crowley... if Crowley...

Balthazar doesn't want to think about the _ifs_. He'll do whatever is necessary to get Crowley back. It must count for something, Balthazar hopes, that he is coming to Crowley willingly to ask for his hand in marriage — a hand that Balthazar no is longer forced to take.

Their demon guide takes them down yet another corridor. It's without doors, except for one at the far end. Instead of the cold white-washed paint it has dark wood on the walls. Torches light up their way. Even the floor has a carpet, muting their steps.

"It's almost cosy," Sam says, "Apart from this being Hell."

"So, what's the plan?" Dean says, stepping closer, walking next to Balthazar. "You do have one, right?"

"Plan, schman." Balthazar lowers his voice. He really doesn't want to let the Winchesters in on how he is driven by his heartbreak, but he supposes that they're in this together, and if Dean is merely half as much in love with Cas as Balthazar is with Crowley, he has to be terribly anxious as well. "I go in there and beg Crowley on my bleeding knees to stop the war, release Cas and take me back. Oh, and I'll admit that I was wrong and that everything is my fault." Balthazar frowns. "Anything else I need to say when I go to grovel in front of my lover and his demons? I would so appreciate your insightful advice." Balthazar glares at Dean. "Or do you think _you_ can talk Crowley into giving you your boyfriend back so that I don't have to? Then again _I_ am not the one who drew Devil's Traps on Crowley's precious antique rugs."

"If all that bothers him when it comes to us," Sam says, "is the rug... then we don't have to worry."

"Wouldn't count on it," Balthazar says, rolling his eyes. "All right. The plan is that we run like hell if my walk down Hell's version of Via Dolorosa doesn't work. We get Castiel out if we can. He might harbour the notion that he'll need to stay to make amends for whatever wrongs he's trying to right. He might need some persuasion." Balthazar straightens up again, reminding himself that he is strong and fierce. He almost makes it. "It has to work," he says, biting his lip not to let loose the tears that seem to lurk at the corners of his eyes, slipping for the first time since they went through the gates, overwhelmed by his longing for Crowley. Sam is looking at him, the younger Winchester's eyes filled with compassion. Maybe he, too, understands how it feels to lose love too soon.

"We got your back," Sam says as they stand in front of a heavy oak door. "Just make it work, please."

The demon who accompanied them opens the door, pushing it wide open. He ignores Balthazar and steps into the middle of the hall. "Your... angel and the Winchester brood," the demon announces as he walks into the centre of the circular room. "Where do you want them?"

Crowley is sitting in an ancient throne-like chair, watching them enter the great hall. He stands, his face a frozen anger. He raises a hand and the demon's meatsuit falls to the ground as the demon disappears, a dusty cloud of black smoke. "With respect for their standing and mine, thank you very much. Anyone else has a problem with that?"

Nobody has, for Crowley's assembled court falls entirely silent. The demons shuffle around anxiously but quietly.

"Why have you come, Balthazar?" Crowley asks, his eyes dead and cold. "You do know we are at the verge of war?" Crowley looks at no one but Balthazar, as if there is nobody else in the room. His eyes glide upwards as if he can see Balthazar's wings. His expression reveals nothing. A vague notion of contempt, if anything.

Balthazar's heart breaks for the second time; his heart must be like a faulty puzzle by now, all sharp splinters and shards that don't fit. He stares at the floor, for seconds unable to meet Crowley's gaze. He is not going to embarrass himself. He won't. "I know."

"Then why are you here?" Crowley's icy voice is like a glacier, cruel and cold.

This is it, his chance. He is allowed to explain himself. Time for cowardice and hiding is over. Balthazar raises his head, standing proudly, finally looking up. His wings flutter and stretch as he walks across the tiled floor until he stands in front of his lover, looking him in the eye. It's like looking at a closed gate. He breathes out, a short, sharp blow, attempting to calm himself.

Balthazar's pride flares. He cannot leave without having tried everything to earn forgiveness. And he holds his head high, proud of his decision as he sinks down on one knee in front of Crowley. "I am here because I love you. Because I have come to ask you to forgive what I did to you." No excuses. No blaming anyone else. No avoidance. "And because I will give myself to you. If you still want me." He stays down, the marble floor cold as ice. Time stretches, stops, making the silence unbearable.

Whispers run through the hall. Balthazar can't separate them, but the demons aren't reacting favourably to vows of love and forgiveness, judging from their looks of confusion and disgust.

"You have already given yourself to Hell. You signed a contract, Balthazar." Crowley huffs, turning to sit in his throne-like chair once more.

"You are _wrong_ ," Balthazar says, his wings fully unfolded, an angry flutter of feathers and shadows before he reins in his emotions. He has to convince Crowley. He has to. "Naomi gave you one contract, me a different one. I didn't know, and neither did you. Naomi added to mine that I'd be killed at the end of the month if I refused to marry. It's in my contract, that condition, but not in yours. I found out only today. I thought you knew that refusing you would mean death for me. She fooled us both. Castiel made me believe that you were in on it. I thought that you'd violated my trust. I accused you unfairly."

"You only accepted the conditions so you could save yourself. You didn't even know who you were going to marry," Crowley says. He presses his lips together, his eyes dark with anger. "You had no interest in the treaty, only in your own survival. You didn't care that you prevented a war. How does that look, you think, angel?" Crowley asks, his tone emotionless.

Balthazar's desperation takes over. This isn't going too well. "I didn't know who I'd be asked to marry, that much is true, so how does that even begin to matter when it comes to us? Of course I wanted to stay alive! Crowley, please!" Balthazar has to make Crowley see what they are losing. "I can't change that, that I suffer from self-preservation. Before I met you it was nothing but a marriage of alliance and convenience for me, and we both know it! I was offered _life_! How could I refuse?"

Taking a deep breath, Balthazar continues before Crowley interrupts him. "But now... the contract is null and void. There is no one who'll insist that we keep the agreement. It's clear that Naomi tried to lure me in and to lure you as well. I became her pawn. We both did. She used us to stay in power. And the thing is that she needed me, specifically for her plan. No one else would be willing to..." Balthazar smiles, and the smile reflects the bitterness inside him. "I'm probably the only angel flawed enough to accept a demon for a husband. And you... you took what you were offered as well. I was the one you wanted, remember?" Balthazar can't keep his emotions in line. Tears burn behind his eyes. He loves Crowley so much. He can't break now. "I am the one you would pay twenty thousand souls for. Unharmed. They said that in the angel broadcast too."

Crowley doesn't react. He just sits there, a king on his throne, superior and distant. 

Taking yet another shaky breath, Balthazar tries to be strong. He has to change the game. "Which reminds me... the bounty. Do you want to pay me now, or later? Half the souls now, maybe?"

Crowley's eyes widen slightly. Despite the throng in the hall, it is so quiet that one could hear a pin drop. "Oh, Balthazar..." Crowley hides his head in his hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Damn you." He frowns, closing his eyes as if he's about to give up. "You are never going to change, are you? How long am I going to put up with you?"

It's a chink in the armour and Balthazar is not letting Crowley repair it.

"Forever. That's what you said. I was forced to take you, but I don't regret that now. I _do_ love you, you see. And since there is no longer any contract, I can give myself to you. Willingly. Freely. No conditions, no terms, no _quid pro quo_."

Cocking his head to one side, looking calculatingly at Balthazar, Crowley purses his mouth. "And if I say no, how long will you continue to bother me about being in love and all that nonsense?"

"Nonsense?" Balthazar shakes his wings angrily, whipping up a gust of wind. "I mentioned forever just now. I assume you heard that? Love might be an overrated feeling to you, but for me, for angels, it doesn't disappear like that. Falling in love is for life, Crowley. It's forever. There's nothing I can do about it but to bother you until the end of time."

"Thought so. So I'm riddled with you, no matter what I do? War, no war. Love or not?" Strangely enough Crowley's frozen anger seems to dissipate like smoke in the wind.

"I'm afraid so." Balthazar's heart beats so loudly that everybody present can hear, he is sure. Maybe, maybe there is a chance. "I can be rather persistent, but you can take it."

"And if I take _you_?"

"Then I'll need all the persistence I can possibly muster. You are terribly difficult." Yes, oh, please! Balthazar is shivering and not from the cold. There is a fire in Crowley's eyes, like embers flaring, a strange warmth that makes Balthazar warm too. He needs Crowley. Life will be grey and dull and boring without him.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Crowley snorts. His voice drops, turning into that rough purr that goes right to Balthazar's groin. "Difficult? I am not the one who unsank the Titanic for a bloody ditty, am I?"

"It was a horrible tune and you know it. The woman shrieks like a cat in dire straits. And the film... Urgh." Everything suddenly feels right. Their silly conversation, the way they know each other so well, the quirky way Crowley's lips turn upwards when Balthazar has said something that amuses him. "Did you even see it? Terrible end. Misery and heartbreak all over the place. Half the audience was sniffling and crying as if they were about to die from the Spanish flu. You would probably love it."

A dissatisfied murmur is rising amongst the demons. Clearly they are either fond of Miss Dion or they have poor taste in films. Crowley should teach them some manners, teach them not to interrupt their betters.

Crowley's head snaps up. "Out. All of you. You there!" Crowley waves at a couple of demons who apparently belong to his guard. "Stay." 

Only then does Crowley recognise Sam and Dean's presence. "Hello, boys. Nice of you to drop by. Please, don't let it become too much of a habit. Didn't think you'd come here, though. A bit outside your comfort zone, right? Why you're here? I'm in the middle of something important, so if you have anything to say, now is the time. Before I have you removed from my realm."

Frustrated beyond belief, Balthazar tries to control himself. He folds his wings, letting them disappear as he tries not to be so tense. It helps that the hall empties rapidly. He considers getting up, but their conversation isn't over, so he decides to stay down. He doesn't care what he has to do to hold on to Crowley.

Dean steps forward. He's clearly running out of patience. Not a strong trait for Winchesters in general, patience. "You have Castiel. I want him back," Dean demands without preamble. Not exactly surprising. Courtesy isn't strong in Winchesters either.

"Say _please_ , Dean," Crowley demands, almost teasingly. "Castiel is here because he wants to be here. I didn't kidnap him. He came to secure the peace between the realms, feeling guilty about his failed attempts to set things right. Not one of his best moves, now that you think of it. Although he is the reason I haven't yet laid siege to Heaven."

"But you were willing to pay his captor in souls." Dean's eyes flash angrily. "You put out a friggin' reward on my lov- on my angel!"

"There was no captor, Dean. Castiel surrendered to one of my generals." Crowley pauses, scrutinising Dean. "And I was... miffed, so I had him imprisoned. I thought that you of all humans would be able to understand how the loss of one's favourite angel might be a little bit stressful. Painful, even. Then again, you do have the emotional range of a vacuum cleaner. You suck up dirt and keep it inside, so how would you know?"

"Yeah, thanks for the psychoanalysis, jerk. Now hand me my angel."

"On one condition."

"What? I only stab you once with his angel blade?" Dean waves the weapon in question.

"Dean." Balthazar shakes his head, hoping Dean's going to cool down a bit. "This isn't helping." Seriously, Balthazar is going to cut Dean Winchester in bite-size pieces with a dull spoon if the fool makes Crowley insusceptible to common sense, common sense in that regard meaning 'take Balthazar back and forgive him'. "Could you for once listen _before_ you kill people?"

"What?" Dean growls, "I'm not allowed to be angry?" He throws his hands up. "Okay, then. On with it. What condition? I am not making any deals here. You're not getting my soul or anything."

"You take Castiel with you to see Joshua," says Crowley, quite surprisingly. "Tell him that there has been a breach of contract. He might be God's gardener, but he's a clever old bird, and everybody tends to underestimate him. One of the better of the self-righteous lot. My angel exempt, obviously." Crowley hesitates as if he is turning potential solutions in his head. "Castiel and Joshua need to remove Naomi from her office. No honest demon will do business with the cheating bird. Get rid of her, and I'll do something that I usually would never do: forgive Castiel for his epically stupid behaviour that almost cost me..." Crowley shuts his mouth. His lips turn into a narrow line of tension. It takes a few seconds before he goes on. "I'll honour the treaty, no conditions except those Heaven and Hell already agreed upon. On Earth, peace to men of good will and all that. Do we understand each other, Dean?"

"Forgiveness? Are you sure you are well?" Dean, for once, looks surprised. "Or getting soft? Maybe Balthazar is rubbing off on you?"

"Winchester?"

"Crowley?"

"You probably haven't thought about it, but you're about to become my brother-in-law, or something that looks a lot like it. Be nice. Or we'll have a family feud on our hands."

Balthazar gasps, unable to keep quiet. "Brother-in-law?" Crowley. He's going to... Balthazar refuses to think the thought to an end. It's to allow hope to take up more space than Balthazar thinks is wise.

Ignoring Balthazar's outburst, Crowley points at the door. "Bugger off, Dean, and take Moose with you. Before I manage to think through that letting you go probably means I'll have to deal regularly with you and your marginally less challenged brother for a very long time. I could murder you both in cold blood instead and that's becoming an increasingly interesting solution, so... leave. Please. For now, merely see it as my present to Castiel and to you that I let you leave unharmed. So do me the favour and get out before I do something I _won't_ regret." Crowley snaps his fingers to summon a guard. "Take the boys to fetch Castiel and accompany them back upstairs," Crowley demands, staring at the guard. "If any harm comes to them, it'll be on you. You won't like it."

Dean turns to look at Balthazar. "Okay?" he says. There is a lot of questions embedded in that one word. _Is it safe_? _Can we trust Crowley_? _Is Cas going to be all right_? _Are you_? Strange how a little, hairless monkey grows on you when one least expects it. Annoying, persistent and headstrong, the Winchester boys are menaces, but Balthazar might, just might, miss their recurring run-ins if Crowley decides to dispose of them.

"Yeah. It's fine. I'm fine." Balthazar nods. Crowley is a ruthless ruler and he has already killed one demon today. However, if he promises Dean and his entourage safe passage, no harm will come to them. There will be more dead demons if anyone lays a hand on Sam or Dean. "It's fine," Balthazar repeats. Except it isn't. The anticipation and the tension is overwhelming. He'll be fine when he's got Crowley back and not a second before.

As Balthazar watches the Winchesters follow the demon guards to an exit in the back of the hall, nausea rises. He is in so deep that he can't imagine how he'll ever resurface if Crowley turns him down. He could throw himself at Crowley's feet and cry, but he doubts it will help. Also, he is not into a display of such indignity. Not yet.

The door slams behind Sam and Dean, the sound echoing between the walls.

The echo dies, leaving the hall quiet. Balthazar is quiet, too; for once in his life unable to find something to say, to come up with a sarcastic comment or a poorly hidden insult or innuendo. He looks around, trying to find a lifeline, something to hold on to, somewhere to start. He goes for normalcy, only he's sounding like a total fool. "Nice decor, but red isn't your colour," Balthazar says, wrinkling his nose slightly at the red walls and black interior. "Couldn't you convince Conran and Kenzo to do a refurbishment down here? It' so... _declassé_ to have to live with the former owner's poor choice in style. Lucifer really doesn't have any fashion sense." Balthazar laughs a forced laughter. "Those jars there... the intestines... they are a bit avant-garde, you know." Balthazar knows he's babbling, but he's so afraid that he can't win back what he's lost that he can't think properly.

"You came here to talk about interior design? I find that hard to believe, Balthazar." A small smile flickers on Crowley's face. "If you have something to say to me, say it. I, contrary to you, intend to stay and actually listen. You could learn from that. Running away from me doesn't become you. You should work on that. Communication."

It could be Crowley torturing him, getting his hopes up, so until he's back in his lover's arms Balthazar doesn't dare believe that Crowley will forgive him. "Communication? Sure, sure," he says forcing himself into a casual indifference to avert a potential blow. He can communicate. He's good at that, especially when he isn't grovelling in front of the man he loves, hoping he isn't going to mess everything up again. "What you told Dean-"

"You are extremely arousing when you're on your knees for me." Crowley certainly displays shitty communication skills himself, changing the subject so sudden. It's not as if it makes it difficult for Balthazar to keep his balance, having Crowley saying things like that. Crowley shifts in his chair, as if the change in topic wants a physical outlet as well. He places his elbows on the elaborately carved armrests, intertwining his fingers as he lets his gaze slide over Balthazar. "So beautiful. Your wings... a work of art. Extraordinary. Your father really did a good job when he created you."

"Are you screwing with me? You tell me to answer, and you cut me off to tell me how extremely well made I am?" Balthazar frowns, but he likes what he hears, though. "How long are you going to keep me at bullet point? My knees really hurt, you know. And the floor is appalling."

"How long does it takes before you are apologising to me and begging for punishment?"

"Crowley, please. Don't mess with me."

"How long are you going to carry on with all this irrelevant nonsense when you could be kissing me?" For the first time Crowley's expression softens, his eyes velvet as he holds out his hand.

Balthazar stares at it. His heart is working again, for it is trying to jump out of his body. It is doing somersaults, thudding and thumping and kicking. He is unable to move, trying to wrap his mind around the meaning of Crowley's words. 

"Balthazar! Oi! We'll sort out Naomi's shit later. Kissing. Now."

Time moves fast or slow and sometimes not at all. Right now it has come to a halt, brakes screeching. The entire _universe_ has stopped, frozen in time.

Then Crowley moves forward, slow motion, his hand sliding through the slippery viscosity of baited seconds until it turns into a touch, a grip, fingers around a wrist. Then time snaps like the crack of whip and Balthazar is dragged on his knees over the floor and into Crowley's arms. Before Balthazar can do anything but trying to keep up with the world moving again, strong fingers tilt his head back. Another set of fingers is in his hair and time makes that odd sliding stop once more. Then lips are on his, Crowley's warm mouth, the touch of a tongue, the slide of Crowley's arm hooked around his back. Time speeds up. Balthazar is breathless as he is kissed hard. He gasps loudly, their broken breaths mingling; breathing makes the urgent kisses so much better. Clinging to Crowley, Balthazar is faint with pleasure and relief, his body a hard-strung bow of tension and need and love.

It might have been minutes or hours before Crowley finally releases him, moving away an inch or two, enough for them to speak. "Hello, darling," Crowley purrs, the voice rough and soft at the same time, filled with promises of dark deeds and pleasures. "So... you were going to apologise?" Cupping Balthazar's jaw, caressing his cheek, Crowley raises an inquiring eyebrow.

"We're good?" Balthazar manages, his brain malfunctioning for he's unable to find something clever to say or a witty retort. "I missed you so much!"

"I wanted to let you go... so angry with you... but the thought of you being with someone else, another man... resting in his arms after making love... I'd have to kill him. And you. I won't allow it, Balthazar. You're _mine_. We're not good, not yet, but I am not letting you go." Crowley laughs, a small bark. "Silly old me, being all soft for you." He kisses Balthazar again, a fleeting kiss, the merest brush of lips. "No more of this. Not until I've had the pleasure of watching you, trying to avoid giving me that apology."

"Contrary to common belief, I mean to apologise, Crowley. I'm sorry for being such a thoughtless idiot." Balthazar's hands are closed firmly around handfuls of Crowley's Anderson & Sheppard jacket. He has no intentions of letting go unless someone peels him away from his lover.

"You almost sat the realms on fire because of you foolish behaviour." Crowley purses his mouth. "No, wait, that would be me. And I'm not sorry for it. But I could do without the trouble. Terribly inconvenient and messy." A nice way for Crowley to admit that he, too, had forgotten to think, risking his kingdom for the sake of love. "Now let's talk about how you're going to compensate me," Crowley says, his lips so close to Balthazar's that they are kissing again before Crowley is done talking, "for the time I could have spent in your bed instead of raging against Heaven."

The kiss grows deeper, and Crowley pulls Balthazar up from the floor, making room enough so that they can cuddle up in the chair. Balthazar is sighing happily, so relieved that all he can do is to hold on and kiss back until Crowley releases him.

"I've been so stupid," Balthazar says, not entirely clueless when it comes to how Crowley wants his compensation. "I- I deserve anything you want to do to me. You have been honest with me all along." Balthazar is filled with such incredible warmth and love for his demon. It's insane, loving a demon, but he doesn't care. He's in love with Crowley and he wants to give him everything he needs. 

Wanting to show it, Balthazar slinks from Crowley's embrace, sinking down in front of him. "Please. I'm yours. Do what you want with me." That Crowley will give him pleasure at some point is a given. It is still exhilarating to give up control, though, letting the King of Hell think up all sorts of lovely, hot, painful perversions for their game of punishment.

"Anything? You do know that your exceptionally good looks aren't going to buy you any mercy, right?" Crowley's smile is brutal in all its arousing cruelty. "Fine. How would you like me to claim you in front of my court, sweetheart? Because that is what I want to do. Let everybody see that Balthazar, angel of the Lord, belongs only to _me_."

There is just one answer to that. Balthazar wants to submit to Crowley, and if Crowley wants to shout it from the rooftops or from the bottomless pit of Hell that Balthazar belongs to him, he will not deny Crowley that pleasure. He will in fact encourage it. "Yes." Balthazar looks up, smiling, finally at peace. They are back together, that which is broken can be restored. "I'd like that very much. But it's not much of a punishment if you think of it. I like being yours."

"And I like that you're mine. Tonight, Balthazar, I will claim you here, in my kingdom. Tomorrow, I have other plans for you."

Heaven can be found in the darkest depths of Hell. Balthazar can't even begin to comprehend the paradox. But sitting with Crowley, breathing in his scent, the tinge of expensive aftershave, the slight smell of sweat and blood... it fills Balthazar with happiness. They could have lost everything and now they have it all. Love. Trust. The pleasure and the games they play. The quiet moments where nothing matters but to be together, close.

"I love you," Balthazar tells Crowley again, because that is how it is. Finally Balthazar has found someone he loves more than life itself.

"Leave now. In five hours," Crowley says, kissing Balthazar's mouth, "come back here and prove it."


	8. High on Sin, Deep in Rapture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : Note that most of the kinks mentioned, including the consensual ravishment, happen in this chapter. Proceed with care as it might be triggering for some as it happens in the torture chambers of Hell. There is a great deal of very rough sex in this chapter. There is left no doubt whatsoever, that what goes on is with Balthazar's full, willing and very eager consent.
> 
> Also warning for minor character (demons) death. Crowley _is_ the king of Hell...

A virgin on her wedding night couldn't possibly be as nervous as Balthazar is now. Some proof, being claimed in front of Crowley's entourage of high-ranking demons. That Balthazar is nervous doesn't change the fact that he likes the idea very much. He has always been a bit of an exhibitionist and he has no qualms having sex with an audience, not _with_ the audience, obviously. It arouses him to think of it, being watched when Crowley takes him. The entire set-up is arousing him: the formality of it, the punishment he'll receive. Which, knowing Crowley, will be harsh and in the end very, very pleasurable. Balthazar knows he'll end up sore and satisfied. And, most importantly, the claiming will get them a long way into repairing their relationship and restoring their mutual trust.

It's a win-win situation on so many levels. When Balthazar went into hiding during the civil war, faking his own death, he swore that he'd try everything Earth has to offer, and that plan is going very well with Crowley at hand. The King of Hell is delightfully wicked, not surprisingly. It goes with the job-description, surely. Balthazar could have done without their little misunderstanding regarding the contract and their marriage. Seeing how it turned out, at least the end result isn't even half bad. Balthazar gets the man he loves, and Naomi... Balthazar smirks at the thought... she gets what she deserves.

Back in the mansion, Balthazar dresses for undressing. Not that he thinks that demons will appreciate the finer details of his dark grey tailored suit or of the subtle midnight blue of his casual Ozwald Boateng shirt. He leaves the top three buttons open. Crowley will appreciate that. The shirt is exact same colour as Balthazar's silk gauze boxer briefs, chosen for easy access. Crowley, will like those too. Balthazar likes the sound of torn silk. Crowley will like ripping open and ruining Balthazar's £7,000 bespoke suit _and_ the silk underwear. Oh yes, Crowley will enjoy, and so will Balthazar. The mere thought makes him half-hard.

Looking in the mirror, Balthazar smiles. He looks good. Great, actually. An improvement from the grieving, tired man he'd been this morning. The dark blues and greys enhance his eyes. Crowley will be pleased. Balthazar smooths out a crease in the shirt that will see its far too early demise in a few minutes. Then he concentrates and teleports himself to Hell. To Crowley.

Crowley meets him in his office. All reserved stiff upper-lippy controlled dignity be damned, Balthazar throws himself in Crowley's arms.

Met with a tight embrace, Balthazar's nervousness evaporates as Crowley kisses him. "Miss me, sweetheart?" Crowley says, his lips curling into that adorable self-satisfied little smile. Smug, that's what he is.

"You are enjoying this far too much," Balthazar murmurs, his mouth on Crowley's, set on taking as soon as possible some of the kisses they're behind.

"I enjoy it exactly as much as I am able. Which is a lot," Crowley murmurs, sliding his tongue between Balthazar's lips again. Held flush against Crowley's hard body, Balthazar can feel his arousal flare. Crowley takes his mouth, tongue-fucking it in deep rough thrusts, until Balthazar surrenders, letting Crowley suck and bite as his tongue and lips as he pleases. Crowley tastes of mint and coffee and of _more_. Balthazar moves his hips languidly as he rubs his hard cock, confined still in the tailored trousers, against Crowley's hipbone.

"Ah, ah! Not like that, love." Crowley breaks their embrace, a firm hand on Balthazar's chest. "When I have punished you and claimed you in front of my court. _Then_ I'll give you pleasure. Until then, I get to play with you as I like. Or as you like, rather, but for the orgasm you won't be allowed to have." Crowley places one final kiss on Balthazar's kiss-starved lips. "Wait here, sweetheart. I'll have my guard come to fetch you when it's time."

Balthazar obeys. Of course he does. Their game has started. He is giving himself to Crowley so that they can confirm their relationship in this distorted reflection of a wedding ceremony. Whether it is seen as valid in the eyes of angels matters less, now that Naomi's little plan has backfired on her. It's not that Balthazar wouldn't like a proper wedding, one his father would approve of. Just to be sure. Balthazar sits down in a plush armchair. There is no reason that he exhausts himself unduly by pacing or being tense. He'll need all his strength.

The office is comfortable. For Hell, it's probably very nice. Old mahogany panels on the walls, dark-brown leather and a rather decent blue and red Motashem Kashan rug that Balthazar thinks he's seen in a private collection. It still is in one, just not in the private collection it originally belonged to. Crowley is incredible. Balthazar can't stop himself from smiling. Crowley is the seven deadly sins personified and still there is something disarming about him, a pinch of humanity, exactly enough to make the sinful charming. Oh, Balthazar is totally, entirely, utterly screwed. He is deeply in love with Crowley and he has never been happier, can't think of a single moment in Heaven that triumphs this moment of anticipation before he lets Crowley mark him as his property.

Balthazar doesn't keep track on time, but meditates until he is approached by two tall and muscular demons, both clad in black. Men from Crowley's guard. "By your leave, Consort," one guard says, strangely polite in this old-fashioned way that Balthazar appreciates. Balthazar nods. No regrets. "Yes."

The two guards escort Balthazar to the great hall that might be the centre of Hell. A room for official duties. Balthazar chuckles at the idea. He's an official duty. The two guards look at him as if he has lost his mind. Probably not much to laugh about in general down here. Balthazar is not naive. He knows what his lover is and what he does. Crowley is not made from puppy tails and honey. He is sinful, evil, all things unpleasant. That Crowley has made an exception, falling in love with Balthazar, doesn't make him one of the good guys. Crowley is still very, very far from being one of those.

As Balthazar walks across the hall's marble floor, the attending demons watch Balthazar with more interest than they did earlier. There are fewer demons present now, all high-ranking officers, allowed to witness the union between their king and his angel consort. Maybe this new interest is because the demons think that Balthazar will rule Hell with Crowley, who knows.

The hall is different from the sanitary efficiency outside in the corridors. A frame that looks like a medical table is bolted to the floor on a dais behind the throne-like chair. Implements of torture are still attached to the walls, shelves with whips and hooks and things whose purpose Balthazar doesn't care to think about. Crowley's efficiency is definitely an improvement compared to what Hell must have been like under Lucifer. There certainly are degrees of Hell.

The two guards stay behind as Balthazar stops in front of Crowley.

Crowley is sitting in the ancient armchair that probably never was meant as a throne for the rulers of Hell, but looks like one anyway. Crowley's face is unreadable. He looks Balthazar over, appreciating the suit, at least the slight twitching of his lips indicates that he does. Crowley stands, holding out a hand for Balthazar to take. Only then does he speak.

"Do you come to me willingly, Balthazar, angel of the Lord?" The fire in Crowley's eyes belies the cold formality.

"Yes." Balthazar takes the hand he is offered. It is warm and callused and strong. Safe.

"And do you give yourself to me?" Crowley steps closer, looking deeply into Balthazar's eyes. "To have until the end of time?"

"Yes."

Crowley strokes Balthazar's hand, a gentle caress that contradicts his strict appearance. "Then I will take you." Kissing Balthazar's cheek, Crowley whispers to him. "Finally, my love. Will you allow me to take care of you and protect you?"

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me," Balthazar replies quietly, not caring that he might be a bit blasphemous, turning the meaning of David's psalm into the exact opposite of the original text. No one in Heaven has ever cared for Balthazar the way Crowley does, not even Castiel. He is loved and protected in Crowley's arms. "Yes."

The formality gets to Balthazar, but in a good way. It's important. They are after all an angel and a demon king. Balthazar has seen the birth of the skies and the seas, of the first life on Earth. Crowley is but a child compared to him, but Crowley understands how formality sets the border between the sacred and the mundane. Crowley respects him in a way that no one else ever has. Balthazar laughs, his breath disappearing into the crook of Crowley's neck. Even their love, deviant and brutal as it might seem to others, draws power from the respect and care they have for each other. When they are not fighting because of a stupid misunderstanding, of course.

Crowley smiles as if he knows precisely why Balthazar is laughing. He turns his back, leaving Balthazar standing in the centre of the room, alone.

"Take him," Crowley commands, not looking back as he walks away. The words make Balthazar shiver from anticipation and need. Crowley will show him no mercy and Balthazar needs none. What Balthazar needs is for Crowley to state his claim and prove his right to his body and heart.

Before Balthazar can react, the guards have his wrists cuffed. The demon soldiers are efficient and hard, not cruel, just doing what they are told with a determined efficiency.

They force him onto his knees on the dirty marble floor, his arms twisted behind his back. He begins to think that he needs his tailor to add bloody padding to his trousers, what with the amount of time he spends on his knees for his lover. Hissing in pain, he looks up, meeting Crowley's eyes. They are hard and just as cold as the floor. Balthazar swallows as a shiver of fear goes through him. The game is exactly what he'd expected. Crowley is throwing them right into it, already letting Balthazar hover on the edge of pain and fear, only able to keep his equilibrium by holding on to the love that he knows Crowley has for him.

Crowley steps forward, a short black crop in hand. "Balthazar." His name is uttered with such warmth that Balthazar breathes again, not even realising he'd stopped. Crowley holds out his hand, palm down and Balthazar tilts his head, almost a bow, to kiss the hand offered to him. In his sinister black suit, Crowley looks so strict, but neither the kiss, nor the bow are admissions to the King of Hell. The kiss is the submission from one lover to another: an exchange of trust and power. It has nothing to do with Crowley being the king of the realm.

Crowley cups Balthazar's cheek, a gentle stroke to reassure him that he won't let him come to any harm. So much is said with such a brief touch. Balthazar turns his head, kissing the palm of Crowley's hand. Without words he confirms that he wants everything that Crowley is willing to give him.

Crowley curls a finger. It's an order and the demon guards pull Balthazar up from the floor. Crowley steps up to him, so close that Balthazar can feel his damp breath on his skin. "Can't wait to see you naked and tied up," Crowley purrs, his voice rough and deep. He takes his time, nibbling at Balthazar's earlobe, kissing the sensitive skin behind his ear before he licks a trail down his neck to the collar of his shirt. "Missed you," Crowley tells Balthazar's collarbone, worrying at it with teeth a bit too deep and hard.

Balthazar relaxes a bit, his arms pulled back uncomfortably in the hands of the guards. He licks his lips; they are dry, despite Crowley's kisses.

"Good," Crowley says and it sounds like praise. Crowley pauses, looking Balthazar over, before he grabs the hem of Balthazar's silk shirt and rips it open, buttons rolling, making him gasp from the sudden movement and the cold air. Crowley rakes his nails down Balthazar's naked chest. It is ice and fire and instant arousal, lines of cold lust. Crowley is sexy and cruel and Balthazar loves it.

"Strip him except from the underwear and tie him up. Make him ready for the punishment he deserves for the distress he has caused us both through his thoughtless behaviour." Crowley turns away, ignoring Balthazar as if he meant nothing to him.

Knowing that Crowley would never give him over to his demons, Balthazar still feels abandoned and lost. "No!" Balthazar fights the demons, but they are strong enough to hold him as long as he only uses what little power his human vessel possesses. "Let me go! Please, Crowley!" he protests as the demons tear off his clothes, leaving him almost naked. He can cry and beg all he likes, and it's a relief to let loose the frustration and the sadness of the last few days. He knows that Crowley needs his safeword to stop the scene. No _no's_ or _don'ts_ will do that. Another pair of demons join their mates, pulling ropes through the eyes of Balthazar's soft leather cuffs. The rough ropes chafe his skin as he fights the guards, leaving red welts on his arms. The demons hiss at him, they are afraid of him and afraid to hurt him. Finally, as Balthazar allows himself to surrender, the demons tie the ropes to a pair of stone pillars, his arms spread wide. Crowley is watching him now, his eyes shining and his mouth slightly open as if he's breathing hard.

One of the guards doesn't stop. Maybe he's stupid or just caught up in the fight. He gropes at Balthazar's arse, nails digging in and Balthazar cries out, disgusted. His cry still echoes when a flash of light hits the offender, his meatsuit drops where it stands, its inhabitant gone. Crowley's eyes meet Balthazar's, one look is enough. Balthazar shakes his head once, an almost invisible movement. No, there's no need to stop. He will come to no harm in Crowley's hands. Crowley may kill as many demons as he likes to keep them from touching him, Balthazar doesn't care.

Smiling at Balthazar's proud defiance, Crowley circles the pillars that Balthazar is tied to. Crowley stops in front of him and Balthazar is rewarded with a kiss, a languid wet, deep kiss that makes him sigh into Crowley's hot mouth. When Crowley breaks away, his look says it all. _Brave, mine, I love you. I'll kill for you. I'll do anything for you._ That knowledge makes Balthazar both aroused and touched.

Looking at the attending demons, Crowley takes a step towards the group. His face is cold and cruel, and not in a way Balthazar likes. He's glad that Crowley's discontent is not aimed at him. One wrong remark and there is going to be more dead demons. "Touch my angel inappropriately, any of you, and I'll have you join that piece of trash there," Crowley says, looking from one demon to the next. "Balthazar is mine to do with as _he_ pleases. Mine to hurt and fuck and use. He is my lover and he will be my husband and your ruler. I will, rest assured, kill anyone who thinks that Balthazar is anything but my prince consort, a divine being worthy of your respect and obedience. If any of you believe him weak, you have yet to discover the true power of an angel of the Lord. Without straining himself, Balthazar could take this room and all of you apart. But he, because of his dedication to me, has decided to spare you all."

One of the demon generals murmurs a few words so low that even Balthazar can hardly hear them. _Angel_ and _inappropriate connection_ stand out clearly, though. It is enough for Crowley as well. The demon is thrown up against the wall, moved by an invisible force. The howl of pain and the sound of bones breaking is most satisfactory. 

"Anyone else expressing doubts about my right to be in love with my angel?" Crowley shouts, his tone not leaving room for contradiction. "I feel what I bloody well like. Questions? Concerns? No? I didn't think so." Obviously the presence of one dead and one hurt demon isn't exactly encouraging for anyone to disagree. Cleverly none of the remaining demons seem to have any problems with their overlord falling in love with an angel.

Returning to Balthazar's side, Crowley trails his fingers down Balthazar's naked body. The silk gauze boxer briefs reveal more than they cover. Crowley grabs a handful of transparent fabric, pulling them tight around Balthazar's bollocks, making him mewl at the pressure. Crowley slips his other arm around Balthazar's waist, the riding crop teasing his thighs. Crowley's thumb makes its way down Balthazar's crack, rubbing against his tailbone, pressing against his hole that twitches as the tip moves in dry, half an inch. Crowley's cashmere suit makes Balthazar's skin itch for more touch as the soft wool brushes over his chest and stomach.

"I want to whip you good," Crowley whispers, licking at Balthazar's ear. He sucks in the earlobe, worrying it between his teeth for a little, until Balthazar lets out a longing little sound, all need and want. "Make you sore and hot and hard before I fuck you. I have so many things I want to do to you, sweetheart, before I'll let you come. Things that'll make you cry and beg and scream so nicely for me." The whip makes its way back up Balthazar's thighs, over his arse, the braided leather handle teasing the skin of his hip.

The first lash is almost gentle, a weak sting before the next falls across it. Balthazar hisses, biting his lip. A third stroke is placed neatly on the other cheek, not too bad. Balthazar whines and squirms, pulling the ropes. Crowley is being gentle, of course he is, it's only the beginning of their game.

"Don't get too happy about it, lover; it's your punishment." Crowley hits Balthazar again, not harder, just three quick lashes on each buttock, a neat row of parallel lines. They smart enough for Balthazar to move restlessly in anticipation and fear, both, of the next lash. When it comes, he cries out. His arse is warm and the marks are turning into burning hot welts, crossroads of real pain where the new lashes cross the first. Crowley eases his pain by kissing him, Crowley's fingers digging into his chin as his head is forcefully turned. The kiss is quick and sloppy, the whip running lazily over the sore stripes on Balthazar's backside. Balthazar's breathing turns calm and Crowley lets go.

Closing his eyes, Balthazar braces himself.

"All you need to do is to spread your legs and scream," Crowley murmurs in his ear, and Balthazar's cock responds immediately, twitching in the thin boxers. The fabric is soaking wet already. It doesn't matter. The whip will ruin them anyway.

Choking on pain and arousal, Balthazar refuses to beg for Crowley's leniency. He doesn't want to let the attending demon see his weakness. "I can do that," he retorts proudly. "If you want." It's a challenge.

The answer comes immediately. With a deep grunt, Crowley goes to work. More strokes, harder, faster, until Balthazar is crying out at each stroke, his skin aflame under Crowley's merciless lashes. The heat creeps over his skin, creeps into his blood and bones, his cock throbbing and his mind fuzzy with endorphins. The white-hot burn is broken up in bits by the touch of cool fingertips and the brush of lips over his, torn apart by the filth Crowley whispers in his ear. How he's going to fuck him. How he's going to take him tomorrow, when he's tired and needy and aching. How he's going to play with his hole, with fingers and tongue and cock, until Balthazar's begging for it to stop. Balthazar moans. He rides the waves of pain, letting it do away with his body. It is so damned good, having Crowley play him like an instrument, so hard strung that he is at the point of breaking.

When the pain flares high, higher than his arousal, Balthazar on the verge of screaming, Crowley stops. He walks away, ten, fifteen feet, and admires his work. "Mmm, so beautiful," he says, admiring Balthazar's body as if it was a piece of art. "Such beautiful suffering." A low appraising murmur from the demons present indicates that Crowley's citizens think so too, clearly understanding the difference between a suffering soul and a body surrendered for this pleasurable torture.

Letting the cuffs and ropes hold some of his weight, Balthazar lets out a shivering breath. He prays that Crowley is done, at least with the whip. He doesn't think he can take another lashing. But he raises his head and opens his eyes anyway, trying to be strong. He is consort of the King of Hell and he can take whatever the fuck Crowley wants to give him.

The next stroke never comes. Instead Crowley snaps his fingers, a servant bringing him a carafe and a glass on a tray. Pouring for his lover, Crowley offers Balthazar blessedly cool spring water, holding the glass as he gulps down the content, easing his throat. "Love you, sweetheart," Crowley breathes, the words barely there. "So good for me." Crowley caresses him, without words offering him the possibility to refuse or ask for comfort if he needs it.

It's over. That whipping, at least. Balthazar knows that Crowley is far from done with him, this is just the beginning. The beginning of pleasure, since he has endured his punishment. His slate is wiped clean. It feels wonderful. They are back to being equal, back to trusting each other, guilt and blame and doubt erased by the stroke of a whip. Of course they could just have sat down and talked it through, but this is so much more exciting and arousing.

Nibbling at Balthazar's neck, placing a row of little bites along the it and along his shoulder, Crowley rips off the tattered remains of Balthazar's boxers, leaving him naked and more than half hard. Crowley's teases Balthazar's cock, a light brush of fingers over the head, a fast tug up and down, a nail penetrating the slit for an instant. It doesn't take long before Balthazar is writhing, wanting more. "Please," he begs, knowing he won't get what he wants, not until Crowley thinks he's earned it.

"Tell me what you want," Crowley demands, his thigh between Balthazar's legs. "Tell me what you want me to do to you."

"I want you to fuck me," Balthazar asks. "Do what you like with me, anything you like, but swear that you are going to fuck me before we're done. Please, Crowley."

"Knew you wouldn't disappoint me," Crowley says. "You're bloody perfect." He places one tender kiss on Balthazar's mouth before he turns around, waving the two guards closer.

"Tie him up on the examination table, legs spread," Crowley demands. "Use the leg rests to keep him open wide for me."

Balthazar looks at the ancient couch in the middle of the hall. Old, rusty metal frame. Chains and straps and dry, cracked leather. He makes a very undignified sound at the thought of being tied up naked in such a humiliating position. Before he can protest or react, the demon guards cut him down, Crowley stepping in to support his body. Balthazar leans into Crowley's embrace, his legs shaking. Only when his breathing is calm, Crowley lets the guards take him.

They drag him with them, carelessly, no pause before they throw him onto the table.

Trying to shut out the feeling of foreign hands on his skin, hands that are not Crowley's, Balthazar breathes in deep, using the intake of air to calm himself. That's a mistake. The couch's leather smells of blood. The leather is rough with it, as if the table has been soaked in it. It probably has. Having the King of Hell as his lover isn't just pleasure. There are aspects of Crowley's life that Balthazar prefers not to think about, not that Balthazar is innocent in any interpretation of the word. To distract himself, getting back in the pleasant mindset of a lover submitting to the man he wants, Balthazar licks his lips, the taste of Crowley's kisses still lingering.

The guards are quick and efficient, tying him to the frame with chains and ropes. He fights them weakly as they spread his legs wide, cold hands opening him up, making him cry out for his lover. Ropes are wound around his ankles, strapped to the metal frame's leg rests. Balthazar has to take deep breaths once more to calm himself. Demons are watching him, seeing him like this, tied up for the King of Hell to use as he pleases and he cannot break. Their human faces are cruel but not cold, as if the demons appreciate his suffering.

The feeling of cold metal under his knees and the ropes around his ankles that tie him to the supports make it feel as if his power slides away, like sand through fingers. He is so vulnerable, entirely Crowley's. Balthazar loves it. He's raw, exposed, bared as if there is nothing that isn't Crowley's to see or to use or take. "Crowley, please," he begs over and over, pulling his restraints, making it sound like a prayer.

Crowley steps up to the table. His eyes shine. Balthazar doesn't think he has ever seen Crowley so aroused, so affected by their game. His eyes flare for an instant, a red fire, burning only for Balthazar. Balthazar moans. Power. Crowley is his, as entangled in his submission as Balthazar is in Crowley's chains. It gives Balthazar strength that Crowley desires him so much. It makes him proud that Crowley loves him with such intensity, loves him deeply, loves what they do together. Balthazar lets out a shaky breath, exactly as affected as Crowley. "Yours," is all he manages, before Crowley's hands are on him, one stroking him gently, the other sliding the crop down his chest, teasing his nipples.

"Ah," Balthazar sighs, a small, fragile sound that shatters as Crowley places a short, sharp smack over one nipple. "Nguh," is all he gets out, arching up, wanting more. Crowley smiles, the cruel, hard smile that shows that he, too, has found the mindset for their play. Crowley cannot hide it, how much he wants it. His erection stretches his trousers obscenely, ruining the line of the tailored suit entirely. 

Crowley goes to work systematically, smothering Balthazar's skin with little rapid, teasing smacks on his hips, his nipples, his cock, his thighs. It doesn't take long before Balthazar is panting again, gasping at each stroke of the whip. When his gasps turn into mewls, Crowley stops.

Crowley traces the line of Balthazar's hipbone, trails his fingers down along his stomach, following the line of blond hair to Balthazar's cock. Crowley plays with his bollocks, pulling them hard enough for Balthazar to writhe under his hand. "Mmm, my darling, so good," Crowley moans, rubbing himself against Balthazar's exposed opening. "Think I'm going to put this in you," he says, turning the whip, teasing Balthazar's hole with the blunt end. "Gonna fuck you open with it."

Balthazar's reply — not strictly needed as Crowley can do whatever the hell he likes with Balthazar's arse anyway — is unintelligible.

The click from a cap sounds so loud in the otherwise quiet hall. Balthazar expects the cool and greasy sensation of lubrication but instead Crowley bends down, licking over the head of Balthazar's very hard cock. The ropes dig into his ankles, a band of pain that contradicts Crowley's warm tongue. Crowley leaves a trail of spittle and need across his arsehole. Balthazar shifts, trying not to choke on the loud moans he cannot hold back. "Please, please, Crowley! Please, put it in me, lick my hole," Balthazar begs, wanting it so badly. "Anything, but oh, please do it! Oh!"

Crowley slides his tongue into Balthazar's twitching arsehole, pushing in as deep as the tight channel allows him. Crowley is tongue-fucking him, even before he's ready. Digging his nails into his palms, Balthazar cries out, tilting his hips, without words asking for more. His entire body is on fire. The bites and the lashes and the silken tongue working his arse have Balthazar so aroused that his orgasm builds far too rapidly, and he's suddenly close, so close he barely keeps himself under control. He cannot come. He needs to keep it in until Crowley gives him permission. A few more thrusts, and Crowley stops, sensing that Balthazar's endurance cannot be stretched much further. Balthazar is grateful that Crowley reads him so well.

Then the handle of the whip is prodding at his widened opening. Cold and wet, oil drips down Balthazar's arse, Crowley rubbing the handle over Balthazar's hole roughly, rough enough to allow Balthazar to find his way back from the edge. Crowley watches him, the cruel strokes continuing until Balthazar's body relaxes. A book. Balthazar feels as if he's being read like a book, one Crowley favours. Balthazar watches Crowley, too, watches how he notices everything. A tense muscle, the curl of Balthazar's lips, the way his cock throbs, the drops of pre-come, all the time riding Balthazar's lust, keeping it reined in tight.

Crowley walks around the table. He outlines Balthazar's body with touches, all of them significant, expressions of the tenderness he feels. A squeeze of his hand, making sure he's not tied up too tightly. A finger running down his thigh to his bent knee, over the ropes that tie his legs. They are warm as they should be. A teasing nail over his dick, throbbing from arousal. Lips on his, a kiss to show Crowley's devotion and to have Balthazar's in return. "Need anything?" Crowley whispers to allow Balthazar ask him to loosen tight ropes, to get him water or to make him more comfortable.

"Fine." Looking up at Crowley, Balthazar repays him with a look, burning from the love he feels. "I'm fine. Thank you," Balthazar adds respectfully, staying within the confines of the borders he has set for them. He wants them to continue, aroused by Crowley's arousal. He whines impatiently. Crowley senses his distress, moving between his legs, using the whip again, the handle sliding into him easily.

With closed eyes, Balthazar lets himself be carried away as Crowley opens him wider, enjoying each touch, each stroke. The contrast between hard and soft. The difference between sharp and blunt. The merging of pleasure with pain. "Want you in me," Balthazar whispers over and over. "Want you so bad."

Suddenly there's a hard tug at the whip and it's pulled out, Crowley rubbing the greasy shaft against Balthazar's erection, until the pressure becomes unbearable. Balthazar squirms, trying to get away from the rough strokes. Crowley slides the handle back between Balthazar's cheeks. Thrusting the whip in and out, excruciatingly slow, Crowley dives back between Balthazar's legs, sliding his tongue in along the whip, deep, lips sucking at the rim of Balthazar's open hole. Balthazar moans as Crowley turns the crop, making it chafe and cut into his prostate. It hurts and he wants to come so badly. He loves it, Crowley's tongue licking him out, fucking into his willing arse. He's so wet and open. "More... more..." he gasps, thrusting his hips up as if to get the tongue in deeper.

Maybe that's what Crowley wanted to hear. He licks into Balthazar's arse a few more times, then pulls out, leaving Balthazar's hole empty and gaping. A demon servant hurries to assist Crowley, pushing a small table closer. Crowley turns and when he comes back to Balthazar, he is holding a lubed plug, big enough to make Balthazar stare at it apprehensively. It's nearly the size of Crowley's massive cock, large enough to stretch Balthazar to the limit of what he can take. His hole twitches. Whether it is fear or longing that makes him squirm doesn't matter, it's necessary preparation. He wants to be fucked hard, needing Crowley's gloriously huge cock in his arse. As usual Crowley is going to prepare Balthazar properly, stretching him gradually. Balthazar heals easily, in a second. He can take it without all the fuss. He knows he can. Then again, anticipation is a powerful aphrodisiac, and the preparation is a part of it, the waiting.

"Relax, sweetheart; I'm going to put it in you." Crowley licks his lips, hungry, before he strokes Balthazar's thighs gently. "Is that _more_ enough for you?"

"Never," Balthazar groans as the tip of the plug teases at his entrance. "Fuck me! That'll be enough!"

"You seem to forget who's in charge, darling." Crowley smirks and pushes the plug into Balthazar's channel, a long ruthless slide, no holding back. Balthazar cries out, little desperate cries for _more_ and _stop_ at the same time. It hurts so deep and so good, pressure everywhere. Then Crowley angles the plug in the exact right way, and Balthazar cries out again; it feels fantastic. For a while, Crowley plays with the plug, driving Balthazar close to the edge over and over. Expertly Crowley teases Balthazar until he loses all sense, moaning and sobbing with want. Time loses its meaning when one is hovering on the edge of orgasm, caught up in blinding pleasure and burning pain. Balthazar is high on sin and seduction.

Gentle caresses over his stomach, down his hip, pull Balthazar back, making him pay attention to Crowley.

"I love how you look with that in your arse," Crowley says appreciatively. He purses his mouth, as if he considering something new. "I have another toy I'd like you to take for me. There mere thought of using it on you is... I want to see you take it." Crowley scrutinises their small audience calculatingly. "I want you to show you off."

Crowley leans in, kissing Balthazar's cheek. Balthazar wants to touch his lover desperately, thrashing in his bonds. "Crowley..."

Intertwining his fingers with Balthazar's, stroking his hand tenderly, Crowley licks at Balthazar's lips, taking his mouth in possession. Balthazar gulps down the kiss as if it was edible, wanting to be filled with kisses and cock until he is sated.

"Want to show our audience how delicious your are, how nicely take everything I want to do to you," Crowley murmurs against Balthazar's lips as the breaks the kiss. "Want _them_ to be aroused by you, knowing that they can never have you, never touch you. You're _mine_!" Crowley's possessiveness flares, his hand tightens, his eyes burn. "Mine, Balthazar. Forever."

Balthazar is back to fighting his orgasm. It's closing in on him, rapid as an avalanche. Damned, he _loves_ it when Crowley gets all jealous and rough. Balthazar whimpers, biting his lip hard, trying not to come untouched and without permission. "Yours," he promises. "So in love with you... can't... oh, Crowley... show them."

Crowley reaches for the promised toy and a bottle of lubrication. Balthazar's breathes faster, as if the oxygen he doesn't need actually has disappeared entirely, leaving him to survive on the small gulps of cold air he manages to swallow. At the sight of the small rod in Crowley's hand, Balthazar shivers. They have played with it before, the sound, and Balthazar knows far too intimately what it does to him. "Crowley, please. I can't... " But his cock twitches, and he makes the mistake of clenching his arse hard around the huge plug in his arse and there is no way he can speak or move or do anything but to fight off the orgasm that once more tingles in his bollocks. "I can't."

Crowley surely knows that it isn't true. "You'll come when I allow it," he says, the tone steel hard and stone cold. "You'll take the sound and thank me for it."

This is why Crowley is perfect. A few words that helps clear his head, and Balthazar has himself under control, so far as he has any control of his body in its current state. "Yes. Thank you."

Crowley's brief smile is reward enough. With one hand he squeezes Balthazar's cock hard, uncomfortably hard, hard enough to make his erection fade. Then Crowley pushes the narrow end of the lubed steel rod into Balthazar's slit, letting it slide in by itself. Balthazar writhes as the thin sound sinks into his cock. It feels like being fucked inside out and he's so close once again that it's a miracle it hasn't happened yet. The steel feels like a cold fire burning him up. Crowley looks at him, enjoying his suffering, his eyes cruel and cold. Balthazar loves the way Crowley looks at him, all that dominant desire directed at him. Wrapping his fingers around Balthazar's cock, Crowley squeezes again, forcing the sound to move. Balthazar lets out little pain-filled moans. Pulling up the probe an inch, letting it sink down again, Crowley continues to tease Balthazar.

He moans loudly, weak from arousal and from the burning cold in his cock. He fights the constraints, wishing he could move his wide-open legs, but Crowley's guard has secured the leather bindings too well. It's both embarrassing and exciting to have a dozen demons watching his total submission to his lover. A few of them are aroused, enough for it to show. One of the male demons is rubbing himself through his trousers.

Balthazar finds it arousing, too, to know that he can stop everything with a word. He likes that he, despite his surrender, is still in control.

Playing with the rod, Crowley teases Balthazar for a while. Balthazar's body is a mess of sensations; he can't keep them separate from each other as they blend, pain becoming pleasure, pleasure almost too painful to endure. Tense and shivering, Balthazar is losing his grip on reality just as he knew he would, floating into a space of content, aroused indifference. All he wants is Crowley to continue using him. Cathartic and elevating, Balthazar let himself drown in the flood of endorphins.

Letting go of Balthazar's cock, Crowley brushes his fingers over Balthazar's tied up hands, checking if they're cold, as if Balthazar couldn't simply force his vessel's blood back into them if necessary.

"Mmm" is all Balthazar manages. "'s good. More." He shivers as Crowley's warm hands move over his neck and shoulders, over his chest, back to his cock, then cupping his bollocks. "I'm good," he says, his voice hoarse. He moans as Crowley steps between his spread legs again, leaning in to kiss his way down his inner thighs. Crowley nibbles at the soft skin there: a warning that more is coming. He takes Balthazar's cock in hand, jerking it slowly, making the rod move inside it. Then Crowley bends down, biting hard into the soft skin just above Balthazar's groin, so hard that the bite has a sound.

Balthazar cries out, trashing in his restraints. "No! Oh, please! No!"

Crowley does it again and again, so many times that Balthazar doesn't think he can cry or scream any louder. The slow jerk-off and the hard bites add yet another layer to the ecstasy Crowley is building up between them, a minefield of pain and mind-blowing pleasure. Balthazar moans and begs, to no avail. Crowley is persistent, and only when Balthazar thinks he is but one second from using his safeword, Crowley stops. Almost unconscious, Balthazar registers soft lips and sweet caresses. A cool, damp facecloth between his legs, on his thighs, soothing the pain. "So precious, so good," Crowley praises, returning to kiss Balthazar again. "So perfect."

Offering Balthazar a glass of water, carefully supporting him as he drinks, Crowley doesn't seem ready to let Balthazar go just yet. He puts away the glass before he resumes the feather-light caresses, his fingers around Balthazar's hand. They are strong and warm against his, and Balthazar soaks up Crowley's strength so that he might be able to endure a little longer, pleasing the man he loves.

"I'd like to do one more thing to you, sweetheart," Crowley says, rubbing his thumb over Balthazar's skin. "It might be too much, and I want you to tell me if you don't think you are able to go through it." He smiles, this time tenderly, all cruelty gone. "You've done so well. I won't let you down and demand that you go through something that breaks you. I want you to walk out of here, strong and proud, knowing you gave yourself to me willingly every step of the way. _They_ ," Crowley nods in the direction of the attending demons, "will understand that. Endurance and strength through your willing submission."

Refreshed by the water and the caresses, Balthazar tries to collect his thoughts. He's so tired and dizzy and it feels better than anything his human body has ever tried. He's not certain that he has any strength left in him. He wants to be able to hang on to the edge that Crowley so expertly has driven him towards. One wrong step, and he'll be over the cliff, into a fall that neither of them wants. They are both aware how it will hurt the fragile trust they are trying to rebuild. And it is not just Balthazar's body that might break, or the trust. Crowley will be devastated if he by accident oversteps the hard limits of Balthazar's endurance. It's a two-way street, for Balthazar is trusted, too: Crowley trusts him, trusting that he won't let himself be driven too far.

On the bottom line that's what it's all about. Trust.

"I love you," he tells Crowley, not even sure he's said the words out loud. "I trust you. Yes." With that, Balthazar closes his eyes and rests calmly on the exact table where Crowley has tortured angels and humans alike. Now the table is used for pleasure, not for harm and Balthazar prefers it stays that way. "Do what you want with me."

"You are everything I dreamed of," Crowley murmurs, sounding so grateful that Balthazar opens his eyes again, just to look his lover in the eye and see the love he holds for him. "I promise it will be brief," Crowley says. "Just be brave for me for a few seconds, then we're done and I'll allow you to come."

"What you gonna do to me?" Balthazar breathes, still floating somewhere far away. He's not even sure that Crowley hears him. Maybe he didn't even speak.

Lips brush against his ear as Crowley tells him in that crushed velvet voice. "First I'm going to untie you so that you may touch me. I want to have your legs wrapped around me when I take you. And then I'm going to impale you on my cock; I want to be in you so that I can feel your every move. And, then, when you're begging me to fuck you, all patience gone, then I will pierce your nipple, marking you as mine. It's gonna be so good, doing it while I'm in you, so that I can feel you give in to me. I want to feel you move around my cock when I put the needle in you. And I'll come inside you while you writhe in pain for me. I'm going to make you feel so good."

Balthazar whimpers. It sounds both overwhelming and exciting and too much, all at the same time. But he can do it, endure what Crowley wants to do to him, he knows he can. His cock throbs, his need to come overwhelming him. He's not sure he's going to make it, holding back through it all. The thought of Crowley pushing a needle through his sensitized nipple while he is buried deep inside him is far too arousing. "I want," is all he can say. "Crowley, I want you. Want to please you." The state of pain-induced bliss he's in makes him feel high and in heaven.

"I'll give you what you need, that'll please me. Patience, my darling. For a bit longer." 

Smoothing his suit, Crowley addresses his demons. "Tonight I will mark my angel in a way you understand," Crowley states, looking at them all, almost as if he's challenging them. "I'll put my mark on his body, a permanent sign that he is mine, my lover, my husband, my consort." Crowley doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to. Hell's officers all know by now that Crowley is not a demon to be trifled with. "Anyone with concerns? I'll be delighted to relieve you of your duty in that case. I am certain that Balthazar will appreciate your sacrifice. I can always make more of _you_ ; there is only one angel for me. I leave it to you to draw the conclusion to those little titbits of information," Crowley says with a smug smile.

Balthazar makes a satisfied moan; this is Crowley when he's most attractive. It turns Balthazar on that his lover is so strong and ready to kill for him. 

Crowley returns to the table. He bends down, stroking Balthazar's cheek. "You all right, love?" he whispers, again caressing Balthazar so tenderly.

"You offered to kill for me," Balthazar manages, smiling at Crowley, his eyes heavy-lidded with lust and exhaustion. "Again. I'm very all right."

Quickly unstrapping the cuffs that keep Balthazar tied to the rusty frame, Crowley is close to fussing over him. Balthazar is comfortable, as comfortable as it is possible to be, filled with a plug and a rod, that is. It's slightly disconcerting not to be in the safe confines of the the ropes. Somehow they feel like an extension of Crowley's embrace, and now they are not there to hold Balthazar tight. "Crowley," Balthazar calls out, although his lover is right there, next to him. He has an urgent need to be held as if it will save him from being lost in the void of pleasure. "Hurry."

"I'm the one giving the orders, baby," Crowley growls, stepping between Balthazar's legs, rubbing himself against the base of the plug, making Balthazar squirm as the large toy touches places inside him that makes him want to scream. Crowley moans. "Do I need to teach you another lesson?"

"No. Yes. I-" He'd like more, but he doesn't think he can. "No. Please. I need to touch you."

Crowley's mouth turn upwards for an instant, enough for Balthazar to know that Crowley _is_ pleased. "Anything you want, sweetheart." He reaches between them, his fingers pulling at the thick plug. "Relax." Crowley plays with it, thrusting it in and out a few times, teasing Balthazar's prostate.

Moaning and sobbing, Balthazar can't even be bothered to move, he is sore and aroused and all he wants is Crowley's enormous cock fucking into him until he comes. Blindly he grasps for something to hold on to, one hand on Crowley's arm, the other gripping at the cold metal frame. "Too much," he moans, needy and so hungry for cock that he thinks he's going to faint from lack of orgasms. "Crowley..."

Quickly and carelessly Crowley pulls out the plug entirely. Balthazar can feel his rim widen as the base of the plug opens him. He is so ready for Crowley. Throwing the heavy toy on the floor casually, Crowley flips open a bottle to pour oil over his fingers and into Balthazar's gaping hole. It is cold and Balthazar twitches, keeping his legs apart, still.

"Love you like that, so pretty, all open for me." Crowley rubs the oil into and around Balthazar's opening. "Wet and puffy and ready, want to thrust my cock into you so hard."

Balthazar whimpers as Crowley pushes his fingers inside, less than gently. "You could easily take my fist now." Crowley moans and pushes in deeper, making Balthazar's breath hitch; not because it hurts, but because it's so good. Does Crowley really have his hand inside him? The mere idea makes Balthazar more aroused than he's been in his entire life, exhaustion be damned. Again Crowley pulls back, casually wiping his hand in his suit. He reaches for his pocket and pulls out a small box. He opens it carefully. "Platinum and sapphire," he says, holding up a small hoop that closes with a tiny blue ball-shaped gem. "It'll look beautiful on you."

Crowley takes it and the needle he'll need to pierce Balthazar's nipple and puts them back in the pocket, dropping the box on the nearby table. Balthazar shivers at the reminder of what Crowley is about to do to him.

"Look at me." Crowley unbuttons his jacket, one hand sliding down his chest to his crotch. He unzips. Crowley doesn't wear any underwear. He pulls out his cock, heavy and fat and long. He strokes it, using both hands on it for a while to accommodate the length and girth. Crowley closes his eyes, hissing at the sensation of his own hands, jerking the marvellous flesh hard.

Balthazar watches, breathless from anticipation. Crowley's cock is gorgeous and he wants it inside him, how could he not? It's a piece of art, worth selling one's soul for, like Crowley did. Right now... Balthazar would rip his own bloody wings off in exchange for it. Not to have one but to have it buried in him, Crowley pounding into him, fucking him hard.

Caressing Balthazar's sore thigh, stroking the bite marks that he made there earlier, Crowley places a tender kiss on Balthazar's knee. He pushes the leg up and back, his eyes on Balthazar. Balthazar can't look away, doesn't want to. He wants to see every little flicker of emotion on his lover's face.

It doesn't hurt, not really. It's perfect. Crowley drives his cock into Balthazar's arse, one long oil-slicked slide, not hesitating for a moment before he's buried to the hilt. Balthazar gasps, writing on the examination bed, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, looking into Crowley's eyes as he takes him. Lust, desire, love. A flicker of red in the eyes, a small taste of the demon he's in love with. Balthazar almost comes on the spot; it's so dirty and wrong that he lies here, an angel made horny and needy for the abomination that is Crowley. "Love you," is all he can manage, and all that matters. That and to be fucked senseless by the universe's most impressive cock and the man it is attached to, demon or angel or god, Balthazar couldn't care less.

Eyes locked with Balthazar's, Crowley starts moving into Balthazar's slick heat. "God, baby, you're... oh... you're taking me so good." For the first time since the claiming started Crowley seems close to losing it. He's covered in a slight sheen of sweat, his face blushing. He leans over Balthazar, mouthing as his neck, placing a row of little deliciously painful bites across his chest before he stops, moving to lick and bite at Balthazar's left nipple.

Bucking his hips, urging Crowley to move faster, Balthazar revels in the sensation of being filled entirely, finally, _finally_ , being with Crowley the way he wants it. "C'mon," he begs, clenching his arse around the huge cock. "Move, please, move!" He moans as Crowley tongues his nipple again. His nipples are wonderfully sensitive, he can't wait to discover what the piercing will do to make it feel even better when Crowley bites and licks at them.

Thrusting into Balthazar ruthlessly, filling him entirely, Crowley starts fucking him in earnest. The harsh fucking sends Balthazar spiralling into the haze of endorphins and deep pleasure once more. He spreads himself as wide as he can, sobbing and moaning with each hard stab into his wet, slicked arse. It's so hot, Crowley fully clad, his cruel fingers digging into Balthazar's flesh, pinching and kneading as he moves his hips. "So good, so per- oh- fect," Crowley moans, rapidly losing his ability to speak. He slams in a few more time before he stops, breathing heavily. "Fuck. Can't..."

Seeing Crowley so close to coming sends a shiver of lust through Balthazar, his orgasm tingling and teasing along his spine, tightening his bollocks. 

Crowley straightens up. His eyes are glazed over, lips swollen and wet. Crowley certainly isn't as unaffected as he tries to appear. He is breathless, somehow charged with power, as if their union has created an electric current between them. Fumbling in his pocket, Crowley finds the small hoop and the needle. He keeps still, his cock buried in Balthazar as he prepares. "Look at me, baby. Let me see what it does to you."

Shivering, Balthazar waits for Crowley to take him the final step of the way, the last thing he has to go through before he's allowed release. Crowley has played him masterfully, pushed him so close to the edge, to the limit of what he can endure, keeping him aroused, high on endorphins, longing for more. Sweat-smeared and with oil dripping between his arse cheeks, with his skin aflame with caresses and the lingering burns from Crowley's delightful strokes and pinches, Balthazar is ready. "Please. Mark me."

Crowley doesn't need much persuasion. He rocks his hips, fucking Balthazar slowly with small, hard jabs, his cock rubbing against Balthazar's prostate with each thrust. Trying to keep his eyes open, Balthazar gives up, his eyes rolling back in his head as Crowley pinches his nipple hard between two fingers. The anticipation is too much. Waiting for the pain to come almost makes him break. When the needle is pushed into his flesh, Balthazar cries out, tightening his body, clenching around Crowley's cock. He mewls, all his need concentrated in that one cry. The cold pain as the hoop is pulled through his bleeding nipple feels like a flood of ice and fire, pulling Balthazar with it towards the fall. He swallows yet another cry and looks up, looks at his own blood-smeared chest and at Crowley fastening the hoop with the small sapphire ball.

"Mine," Crowley whispers hoarsely, more possessive than Balthazar has ever heard him. "Fucking _mine_."

"Yes," Balthazar agrees and fists handfuls of Crowley's formerly so impeccable Savile Row suit. "Yours." Somehow he finds words buried deep within, too many and too formal, but nevertheless true. "For I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine," he whispers, his mind suddenly clear, Solomon's words so oddly suitable for the promise he is giving the man he loves.

It's so simple, but Balthazar knows that they have both made a vow. Balthazar vaguely registers the demons who are watching them, not caring if the entire population of Hell was here. There is only Crowley.

Crowley bends down, licking the blood off Balthazar's pierced nipple, hissing and gasping as he swallows the tiny red drops, as if the angel blood has an impact. Crowley's cock is pulsing as he fucks into Balthazar harder than ever, slamming in so deep that it makes the table squeak and rattle, the screws bolting it to the floor coming loose under Balthazar's body.

Then there is nothing left to hold on to, nowhere to gain foothold. All Balthazar can do is to reach for his lover above him, let himself come apart in the strong arms that hold him through the white haze of rapture. Balthazar sobs as he cries out his orgasm, Crowley's wonderful cock ploughing into him, come pumping hotly into his arse.

The last thing he notices before exhaustion and relief takes over is Crowley's face contracted in ecstasy as he, too, comes, Balthazar's name on his lips and a last _I love you_ whispered breathlessly into Balthazar's ear.


	9. Breakfast at Tiffany's, Wedding at Celine's

As Balthazar comes to, he groans and turns, wincing as a sharp jolt of pain shoots through him. A warm hand strokes his side, and a few kisses land on his neck, velvet lips on his skin.

"Lie still, sweetheart, I'll get you something for the pain, that is, if you don't want to heal yourself." Crowley's tenderness is always a little bit surprising. Perhaps that's all he has left of any humanity, and all of it is spent on Balthazar. He likes that.

"Mmm, no, I don't want anything." Balthazar groans and shuffles around, entangled in their luxurious duvets. He's in bed, his own. Somehow it makes him happy that Crowley has carried him all the way from Hell into their home. In the dim light of dawn he can see the outline of the bed's canopy. He's clean and warm and comfortable, except for the dull throbs of pain. "We're home."

"Hell is not exactly the place to enjoy a quiet morning with one's lover. I exhausted you. Took the liberty of bringing you here to take proper care of you. "

Stretching, careful not to overdo it, Balthazar reaches for Crowley."I'm a bit tired," he admits. No wonder since he passed out and slept Father knows how many hours in Crowley's arms. Outside it's light and sunny; the rest of the night and some of the day apparently disappeared. "And I'm a little sore." He puts his hand over Crowley's, groaning as he shifts so that his back is flush against Crowley's warm and very naked body. "Don't go anywhere," he demands. "I really don't need anything except for you. I like being sore." Balthazar smiles, content. "It reminds me of what you did to me."

"Oh, I'll remind you if you want." Crowley laughs, his hand brushing over Balthazar's pierced nipple. "Every day."

Balthazar likes the sensation. His vessel has healed fast, and the piercing isn't particularly swollen or painful. His arse, on the other hand... Balthazar looks over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "Touch my arse and I'm going to send you to the opposite end of the known universe, you _bastard_."

Kissing Balthazar's back, Crowley grins wickedly. "I could let you touch _mine_. You were damned good last time." He skims his fingers down Balthazar's body until his hand rests lightly over Balthazar's awakening erection. Crowley's words might have been a bit rough, but his touch isn't. It's affectionate and loving and a little bit arousing, Balthazar has to admit, when Crowley kisses his way from his neck to his lips. Even hotter is it when Crowley licks deep into his mouth, moaning as Balthazar meets his slick tongue, eagerly stroking it with his own.

Sighing happily into the kiss, Balthazar surrenders. 

They make love quietly, slowly. It's not sex for the sake of sex and release, but for what they feel for each other. Balthazar can see it in the way Crowley looks at him: desire, yes, but there is more. Balthazar can't look away, doesn't want to, not when Crowley's eyes are brimming with love for him.

There's no hurried coupling, no teasing. Crowley lies back into the pile of Egyptian cotton sheets and handmade Icelandic goose down duvets, pulling Balthazar on top of him, ready and open and wet. Balthazar groans, trying not to come on the spot when he realises that Crowley has planned this wonderful morning, preparing himself to be taken. Crowley moans, a sound of deep satisfaction, when Balthazar slides his tongue into his mouth and his cock deep into his arse. They have all the time they want, no orgasm to chase. Lazy, deep thrusts is all Balthazar can manage, tired and sore as he is. Whispering sweet nothings in Balthazar's ear, Crowley's breathing turns into fast little moans. They are not looking for release, it seems to find them in the middle of their slow, languid coupling. Balthazar's grace is slipping, it's like it's growing inside him with the sensations, with every heartbeat and every loving kiss. It's a slow-burning passion, but it burns like embers anyway, scorchingly hot.

Crowley's eyes flash red. "Let go, love. I can take it," he murmurs, his words broken up in small islands of sound. And Balthazar releases the tight grip on his grace, his skin alight with it, the warm light sliding into Crowley effortlessly. Crowley makes a pained cry, arching up from the bed, his fingers digging into Balthazar's shoulders. He tenses, eyes closed, his face contracted, before he pulls Balthazar down, biting down where shoulder meets neck, hard enough to make it bleed. Sucking hard on the wound, Crowley lets out a groan and he comes, semen spurting high up on his stomach, warm splashes dripping down Balthazar's chest. Letting go of Balthazar's skin, Crowley's mouth is open, his eyes dark red as if the demon is unable to hide in the body it inhabits. He freezes for a few seconds as his orgasm surges through him, Balthazar's grace painting shadows on his skin from the inside. Crowley is in rapture, caught in the clash between grace and condemnation. He cries out as Balthazar thrusts into him harder, deliberately letting both cock and grace slide over Crowley's prostate. 

Balthazar can't get enough of it. He drives his cock into Crowley, hard, again and again and again, ignoring his own aching body, wanting to fill Crowley with grace and come and pleasure. He releases his grace, letting it wreak havoc in Crowley's body and mind, letting it entangle itself in and with the demon, forcing it into a state of pure angelic ecstasy, knowing that it will be hard for Crowley to stand. Gasping for air, begging for the mercy he never offers to anyone himself, Crowley wraps his legs around Balthazar's waist, forcing him closer, deeper. Crowley comes again, dry, his moans raspy and hoarse. Only then does Balthazar allow himself release. He can feel it, feel how his grace expands, his cock throbs, his toes curl. Then the universe explodes. Crowley tightens around him, arse, arms, legs. Nails rake down his back, opening recent wounds. Balthazar cries out silently, making the windows rattle at the onslaught of angelic energy. In a flash of blinding white light he comes, Crowley clinging to him, giving voice to their pleasure, his dark voice chasing the silence away.

It takes an eternity, or maybe it is only minutes — time is a bit wonky — before Balthazar is able to speak. All he can manage is to lie on top of Crowley, limbs entangled, until his cock is flaccid, slipping out of Crowley in a trickle of oil and semen. "That... was..." Balthazar manages, pulling at the sheets, ruining them by using them to wipe off the mess.

Crowley sighs deeply, shifting so that he lies with his head on Balthazar's shoulder. "Mm, it was. You... your blood... it tastes of summer, the way I remember them as a young man... and a little bit of chilli. Maybe it's as addictive as demon blood?" Turning his head a bit, pressing a kiss to the spot, teeth marks still visible, Crowley licks Balthazar's skin as if to get more of his blood. "Can't believe how strong and powerful you are." He sighs and lets his arms flop down on the sheets. "You could rip me to shreds, and you still let me have you the way I want you." Crowley says it as if it is some kind of miracle. He opens his eyes. "Although roles _were_ reversed just now. Not complaining, though."

"We're in love, not at war. Wasn't that the general idea?" Balthazar mumbles, yawning. He's worn out once more; Crowley really is good at wearing him out, no matter what roles they take. "It'd be counter-productive to rip you to little pieces. Stupid, actually." Balthazar manages to open his eyes a bit, his eyelids heavy. "You know... since I want _forever_ with you. And that means _nobody_ touches my demon, and nobody rips him apart."

Crowley draws patterns on Balthazar's stomach, his fingertips gently mapping out the angles of Balthazar's hipbones, the small trenches between his abs, the low hills of his chest and nipples. It fills Balthazar with a quiet happiness. He hadn't counted... well, he hadn't counted on anything when Naomi approached him, and even when he fell in love with Crowley, he didn't think it would come to this. Hot sex, friendship, experiments, yes. Love, some distorted variety of it, maybe. But the happiness that fills him, the almost heavenly happiness he sees reflected in Crowley's eyes... that is surprising. Balthazar hadn't thought the King of Hell had it in him to love like he loves. Like Balthazar loves. It has been a month, and so much has happened since Naomi — Balthazar grimaces at the thought of her — pulled him back into Heaven.

"You okay, baby?" Crowley sits up, looking down at Balthazar. "Wouldn't want you to exhaust yourself; I have plans."

"Exhaust myself? First I'm whipped, bled and claimed by a demon. Then I am woken up rudely before I've finished my first proper sleep for centuries, and just now I was forced to suffer as unreasonable demonic demands were made on my body. Why would I be exhausted?" Balthazar huffs, reaching for Crowley once more. It's awful, but he can't get enough of Crowley.

"Ah, ah. None of that, darling." Taking Balthazar's hand, Crowley kisses it. "You just looked a bit discontent for a moment."

Balthazar sighs. "I was thinking about... Naomi. About us. I pray that Castiel and his tame monkey are able to kick her arse, because... it's a month today. The contract hopefully has been annulled by now, because I'd rather stay here than waking up tomorrow only to discover that I've turned into a blob of absolutely nothing." Balthazar can't stop himself from worrying. Although he knows that Crowley's knowledge of celestial and underworldly contracts is bar none, there is still that nagging thought that he will cease to exist before the day is over. He doesn't think a claiming before the court of Hell's counts as a marriage, despite Crowley's intentions. Balthazar would really like them to get married and not just because the contract still might be valid.

"As I said, I have plans." Crowley looks far too smug for Balthazar's liking. "We're going shopping. Now, are you getting up, or I am going to torture you until you give in?"

"Hah." Balthazar snorts. "And what do you think you can possibly do to me that you haven't already done?" He is curious, though. Crowley has plans?

Wiggling a finger at Balthazar, Crowley grins. "You aren't by any chance ticklish?"

"I'm up!" Balthazar hurries to remove himself from Crowley's general vicinity. "That is not... dignified," he laughs. "Damn, you're evil."

"Thank you. I do my best." Crowley beams, laughing too. "Go shower. We have to be in New York in," he looks at the clock at the bedside table, "half an hour and time travel is a bore. Hurry."

Crowley teleports them from their house to a secluded corner near the Pond. Moving between places is seemingly as smooth for the King of Hell as it is for angels. Taking Balthazar's hand, Crowley leads them towards the exit. They walk slowly, hand in hand, enjoying the relative peace and beauty of Central Park.

"Where are we going?" Balthazar isn't truly suspicious, at least not in a bad way. "I'm might be mistaken, but this," he looks down at their joined hands, "looks strangely like you're trying to be romantic. Not that I mind. It's cute."

"I have been known to surprise people," Crowley laughs. "Mostly when I unbutton my trousers, but I doubt that will be appreciated right now."

"Oh, really?" Clearly Crowley isn't going to reveal anything about his plans. There certainly is a romantic hidden in that calculating brain of his, though. Not that Balthazar thinks that there has been lack of romance as such; Crowley knows how to woo. Only this feels different. Something is going on.

Fifth Avenue is the usual hustle and bustle of people and cars and noise. The area isn't foreign to Balthazar: although he prefers doing his shopping in London, Milan and Paris, he's been at the luxurious stores here more than once. Enough times to be regarded a cherished customer in some of the shops.

They stop outside Tiffany's. "Won't offer you breakfast," Crowley stating the obvious, since Tiffany & Co never served breakfast for their customers, at least not to Balthazar's knowledge. "We'll have brunch later, if you want," Crowley promises.

"No breakfast at Tiffany's? I'm no Holly Golightly, either, so that suits me fine."

" _We belong to nobody and nobody belongs to us. We don't even belong to each other_.' Isn't that what she said? Holly." Crowley pulls Balthazar closer. "The thing is... I do belong to you. I want to belong to you, Balthazar. Even now that we have Naomi off our backs, I want to belong to you."

Around them people go to work. They hurry to buy coffee and doughnuts and they seem so busy getting on with their lives. Cars honk, engines rev and traffic lights change from red to green and back. But in that small spot in front of Tiffany's time stands still. There is nobody else in the universe but Crowley. The smells and the shouts and the sounds of life in the big city go unnoticed, for Balthazar is melting. He is so in love with Crowley, and it's only getting worse. Balthazar falls even deeper, not that he thought it possible. Crowley is _adorable_.

Balthazar doesn't have the heart to tease Crowley about the fact that he's quoting what is just about the most romantic movie of the 20th century, kicking that awful James Cameron flick to the curb with the power of a thousand thermonuclear weapons. Also, Audrey Hepburn is hot. Balthazar likes them short and doe-eyed. "I think we've covered that already," he says, "what with you claiming me and everything."

"In the lovely black eyes of my demons, yes, you're mine and I'm yours." Crowley starts walking towards the doors, dragging Balthazar with him, almost like a child. He stops before the security guard steps up to open the doors for them. "It's not enough. For you, that's not enough. I'm not certain it is for me, either."

"Now you're telling me what I'm supposed to be thinking too?"

"I'm telling you what _I_ think. And I think you need to accompany me inside so we can collect the wedding rings I ordered."

"Wedding rings?" Balthazar swallows. "But-" Crowley offers him what he wants the most? A real marriage, not just the demon version of it, but one that is more easily recognised by his own kind?

"Do you trust me?"

"Not for a second," Balthazar teases. It's a lie, of course. He trusts Crowley with his entire being, all hundred-and-eighty shiny feet of it, vessel not counting. "Why?"

"Clever boy. Because I have plans, like I said. And since you're a smart angel, I doubt you'll have trouble figuring out what they are."

Standing outside the iconic jewellery store, Balthazar _knows_ , just knows how right Crowley is for him. "You are asking me to marry you?"

"Coercing you into it is more like it, but I'll assume that you're going to say yes, because I'm perfect for you."

"Father in Heaven, you're so..." Balthazar throws his free hand up. "What am I going to do with you?" He shakes his head. "I'm never letting you go."

"Then say yes." Crowley suddenly looks very serious. "I'm hopelessly in love with you," he admits readily, wrapping his arm around Balthazar's waist. He looks up, strangely honest. "I thought... I thought that it'd be... " He pauses, as if he's considering what to say. "Taking you to bed would be a nice way to consolidate my power base. You know, good looking angel, probably a good fuck. Something that would be pleasant for _me_ and secure my position. Maybe I didn't think too much about what you'd feel. It was more like, oh, what's in it for the angel? A business transaction. I was attracted to you, but nowhere near..." He leans in, his forehead touching Balthazar's. "God, I'm so lost in you. Didn't think I was able to love at all. Only when I spoke to you about our alliance for the first time, I wanted to be able to love you. Maybe it's like riding a bike; one never forgets."

"Comparing me to a bike? That certainly is flattering, although not entirely unfair. I _did_... get around a bit before you," Balthazar retorts, utterly, utterly weak and soft and just as gone as Crowley. "I agreed to put up with you then even though you're not my type. Demon." He smiles, his lips brushing over Crowley's cheek. He cocks his head, smiling. It feels as if that's the way his mouth has decided to stay these days: a constant state of happiness and giddy smiles. "I'm an angel. We do pity. I'll take you out of pity."

"High horse. Ground. Please?" Crowley looks a bit like a small boy begging for sweets. "Balthazar... Come on... Let's get inside. The rings. I want my ring on your finger. I want to marry you. I want to get this deal done and over with, so that I can have forever with you."

Smirking, Balthazar amuses himself by dragging it out. Tormenting Crowley is an entertaining pastime. He's adorable when he's being teased. Balthazar can't keep it up for long; he can't stay aloof and cold, not when Crowley looks at him like that. He knows how Crowley feels. "Don't be daft." He strokes Crowley's cheek before he steps into his arms, nuzzling at his neck. "Somehow _I_ , what I could get from our alliance, stopped being important, because of you..." he confesses. "You know I love you, that I'm in love with you. There will never be another man for me. With us — with angels — it's for life. I don't think my father meant that I'm supposed to obey different rules merely because I fell in love with a demon." Balthazar nibbles at Crowley's earlobe. "And for the record, the demon part turns me on a little."

"Yeah, I know which part," Crowley laughs, making sure that the part in question is rubbing against Balthazar's hip. He grins, his smile as giddy and stupidly loving as Balthazar's. "We're doomed."

"Totally," Balthazar agrees. Oh, bloody damnation, he is so, _so_ lost.

He's not allowed to see the rings. Crowley can be quite persuasive and he insists that Balthazar sits down in one of the shop's comfortable sofas. So Balthazar is waiting until Crowley has finished his business, an act which, as far as Balthazar can see, requires a lot of sucking up from salespeople, the flashing of a J. P. Morgan Palladium credit card, which elicits even more sucking up from said salespeople. It serves to cement his conviction that Crowley, King of Hell, is a softie. At least when it comes to the man he has chosen to share his life with. Balthazar has little faith that the soft spots stretches much further than that.

Crowley's steps echo across the floor as he returns after paying and more sucking up. "Good. We're going to be in time," He holds out his hand for Balthazar to take. "Let's find a quiet place so we can leave unnoticed. There's a small café at Madison, _MacarOns_. They know me and they don't ask questions. Nobody makes pastries like theirs without a small agreement with me first."

Balthazar doesn't ask. Humans have this odd habit of freaking out when angels and demons disappear instantly, so he understands the need for discretion.

They walk out into the street, towards Central Park before they turn right, down Madison to the MacarOn Café. The café is almost empty, they're popping in between the early breakfast rush and lunch. A few patrons are enjoying their food, not paying them any attention.

"Men's room?" Balthazar asks, not interested in what the café has to offer, except for a place to leave for wherever it is Crowley is taking them.

"Works for me. They are probably going to use hours figuring out how we got out of here." Crowley laughs, a tinge of cruelty mixed into the carefree laughter. He looks at his watch. "Let's skedaddle. As I said, we have an appointment."

Using the opportunity to kiss Balthazar thoroughly, Crowley pulls them into a stall and closes the door. The toilet smells vaguely of lavender and chlorine. "Pity they don't do glory holes." He sends Balthazar a wicked smile. "A bit substandard, for a French patisserie, but fuck, it'd be hot, knowing that you'd be on your knees on the other side of that thin wall, sucking me off."

The idea has merit. "And what makes you think I'd be the one on my knees?" Balthazar teases. Of course he'd want be on his knees for Crowley — isn't he most of the time anyway? It would be so dirty, kneeling, jerking himself off with Crowley's huge dick in his mouth, pretending not to know who he is taking down his throat. "I'd swallow every drop of your load," he murmurs into Crowley's ear as he tilts his hips invitingly, making sure Crowley can feel him harden. Balthazar isn't fooling anyone with suggestion that Crowley should be the one kneeling; they both know how much Balthazar loves submitting to his lover.

"You are such a slut for me," Crowley growls, pushing Balthazar up against the wall. "I'd fuck you right here, had it not been for the fact that we have more important things to do this morning."

"Something more important than fucking? Never!" Balthazar shakes his head. But marriage is a bit more important, he has to give Crowley that. "Let's put that a hard fuck up against the wall on our to-do list, next to the glory hole sucking, shall we?"

"Not likely to forget." It's good to see that Crowley actually is a tad flushed. Balthazar doesn't think it'll take long before he finds himself in a gay bar, doing exactly what Crowley would like him to do. "You drive me crazy, angel," Crowley says, sliding his hand down Balthazar's arm, making him shiver. Crowley takes his hand. "C'mon, baby."

It is nice to let Crowley move them between places. Balthazar always feels a little bit off after teleporting. Crowley isn't affected at all.

They step out of thin air at the shore of a small lake. The merry little waves glitter in the sun. It's a beautiful spot. "Where are we?" Balthazar asks, looking at the surroundings, trying to determine where Crowley has taken them. He takes a moment to sort out the universe and the lake's location in it. It's either that or Google Maps but he left his smartphone at the mansion. "Vegas? Really?" He wrinkles his nose at the mere thought. "Now, if that isn't declassé..."

"Might be, sweetheart, but since we're getting married once, and you have expressed the urge to try _everything_ , your life won't be perfect without having tried a Vegas shotgun wedding." Crowley smirks and yanks Balthazar close, kissing him sloppily, unable to stop smiling as he does so.

Balthazar wipes his mouth, glaring at Crowley, not able to stand his stupid, boyish, confident charm. As usual, Crowley is right. If one puts it that way, that is: that a Vegas wedding is the pinnacle of weddings. Which it isn't. Then again, they can get married _now_ , right this instant, and that is Balthazar's main priority. Seeing that there is no tacky chapel or wannabe Elvis in sight, it's safe to say that it can't be _that_ bad. Then Balthazar takes yet another look at the lake and realises that things actually can be that bad. Or worse. "Lake Las Vegas, is it?" He knows it is, he just wants to hear Crowley say it, admit what he has done.

"Mmm," Crowley says, as if he knows something is wrong. "It is."

Admittedly, Crowley has found a beautiful venue. Balthazar isn't complaining, but he definitely is going to. "You are aware that the woman of my nightmares _lives_ across that lake," Balthazar comments acerbically, secretly pleased with the trouble Crowley had gone through to find a great venue. But why it has to in close proximity of Miss Dion is beyond him. Balthazar points at a decidedly poor designed mansion barely visible from where they stand. "There. All my nightmares come true."

"Yes." Crowley makes a face. "There is a reason, though." Crowley looks at Balthazar with glee. "You are mine, Balthazar. And I am going to give you anything you want, including Miss Dion's head on a plate for a wedding present. Just consider it, and I'll fetch it for you. I doubt that our guests will appreciate the gesture, but it's just a skip across the lake as you remarked, and I'll have your present ready in a minute."

"Aw, you _do_ love me." Balthazar sighs happily at the thought of Celine Dion's head being separated from her lungs. He can do without the plate. It's a beautiful thought, very romantic, but unfortunately rather bloody and disgusting what with her face and the gore. Perhaps at some point during their honeymoon. Balthazar raises an eyebrow questioningly. "Guests?" He can't think of anyone he'd care to invite to the ceremony, except for Castiel. Crowley is currently not particularly fond of his best friend, though, so it's unlikely that Crowley has asked him to show up. "You're telling me we can't just say yes and then get out of here as fast as possible? So we can go home and have more mind-blowing sex."

"You didn't get enough yesterday?" Laughing, Crowley kisses Balthazar. "As I said, we're waiting for our guests. It's customary, you know, to invite people to watch such a ceremony."

"Yeah, I noticed," Balthazar says, not entirely without fond memories of the ceremony they had the night before. "That I was being watched." The mere thought of being fucked in the presence of an audience has his cock stirring again. Not that he thinks Crowley has plans in that direction at the moment, but then again, one never knows. It's Crowley.

They walk along the shore of the lake, not far, until they reach a small, white gazebo surrounded by large trees. The shadows are blessedly cool. There is not a soul in sight. It's very peaceful.

"You do know that Celine Dion had a lavish wedding at Caesar's Palace a decade ago, yes? With peacocks and camels." Balthazar huffs at the thought. The woman wouldn't recognise refined taste if it hit her right in the face. "I don't think she married any of the camels. Don't know what she did with them. I fear they have suffered trauma enough to last them a lifetime."

"For one pretending not to be a fan, your knowledge on the woman is remarkably detailed. Anything you want to share, Balthazar? Something you haven't told me? You're harbouring a secret crush on her?" Crowley looks smug. He knows very well that the only one Balthazar has a crush on is him. "Would you rather have had a wedding at Caesar's Palace? That surely is to take _tacky_ to new heights."

"Don't be an idiot. I keep track on her as better to avoid her. That shriek of hers can be heard miles away. I didn't lie when I said I'd rather smite myself than to be exposed to her singing — or to that horrible film." Balthazar shudders. "And absolutely no Caesar's. There are limits to how low one can sink. As if Vegas isn't bad enough..."

"I thought you said that you'd marry me as soon as possible, and that the location didn't matter. Perhaps I heard you wrong?" Crowley teases, not at all fazed. "Stop complaining. Pretending you don't want a ceremony doesn't work with a crossroads demon, darling. You're like an open book." Crowley puts his arm around Balthazar's waist as they walk.

Balthazar melts a little. The location really doesn't matter. Hard pressed he'd even get married with Miss Dion officiating; he wants Crowley that much. It's about love, not location. "No, you didn't hear me wrong." He stops and wraps an arm around Crowley's neck, sliding against him, tempted to let things go too far. "I want you. I'm in. Just leave out the camels and Caesar for sanity's sake, will you."

"No camels. I swear. I have brought something else you'd like more."

About to ask what could possibly top two tacky camels, Balthazar's attention is diverted by a rustling in the nearby shrubbery. "Not anything to do with burning bushes, right?"

Crowley's grin belies any reply he can possibly come up with. "Actually-"

"Dammit, Cas!" a rough voice swears. "What the hell. In the middle of... Ouch!"

Balthazar stares at the bush. If it bursts into flames, speaking in Dean Winchester's voice, he's out of here, marriage or no marriage.

"Stop complaining. Help Joshua." Another voice. Undeniably the younger Winchester. Oh, joy.

Balthazar didn't think he could fall deeper in love with Crowley, but he was obviously wrong. He seems to get that point wrong all the time. As for Crowley, he surely knows how to fulfil wishes, he does, even the ones Balthazar didn't think he had. "Thank you," he says quietly, wanting Crowley to know how much it means to him that he asked Castiel to come to their ceremony. He could have done without the Winchesters, but like Crowley admitted earlier, the idiots do grow on them. That Joshua is joining them is quite the surprise, though, and a pleasant one. Balthazar always liked him.

"I had nothing to do with their poor aim," Crowley says. "I told them where to go, exactly. I asked Castiel and Joshua yesterday, before you returned to Hell and me. Moose and Squirrel tagged along. Wouldn't dream of asking them unless it involved averting an apocalypse."

"Or getting your fiancé back." Balthazar watches as Castiel disentangles himself from a fernbush in a rustle of flowers and leaves. "Seems Cas is sorta... stuck with one of them. All we need now is that Sam falls in love with another of my brothers, and we'll have the full set."

"Nah, there is still the youngest. Adam. There's no love lost between him and Michael. Moose... he'd be good with Gabriel or Lucifer if the first wasn't dead and the second hadn't been who he is. But Castiel... I don't think there's any chance that Dean's letting go of Castiel this side of eternity. Can't stand the pair, but they are adorable when they try to pretend that they're not in love." Crowley looks very much as if he's trying not to laugh. "They do have a certain entertainment value."

Finally the party has separated itself from the local fauna. Joshua brushes a few white petals off his otherwise pristine shirt. It's strange to see him dressed up nicely. "Good to see you back," Joshua rumbles, squeezing Balthazar's shoulder. "The one thing Naomi did right. You see, upstairs we're still looking for a few weapons we seem to have mislaid, and I am so _pleased_ to have you with us. Now that you're here, you could help us find them. You know, in exchange for..." Joshua sends Crowley a look, not entirely friendly.

"Nothing says 'congratulations on your wedding day' like a bit of coercion." Balthazar looks from Crowley to Joshua and back. "You knew Joshua was that devious, didn't you?"

"Joshua is an angel of his word," Crowley says neutrally. "I like dealing with people who know what that means. Just because you underestimated him..." Crowley shrugs. "And you won't need those weapons, darling. Not when you have me."

"Aw, if that isn't sweet." Of course Dean can't keep his annoying mouth shut. "The King of Hell is all protective of his little bi-"

"Do _not_ even think of saying what you're about to say," Castiel intervenes. "Dean, please? Balthazar is my friend, that is, if he forgives me for my wrongdoings and-"

"I forgive you!" Balthazar is willing to do anything for any guy able to make Dean Winchester close his mouth. Preferably before Balthazar does something unpleasant and irrevocable to Dean. He doesn't think Cas will appreciate it. "Anything, as long as you keep a short lead on your puppy." Balthazar has long since decided that he will forgive his best and only friend. Not that Balthazar in that regard has any right to a higher moral ground; he did treat Cas unfairly and they were all caught up in a bigger scheme when Cas forgot himself and stabbed Balthazar with the angel blade.

"Now, now. Let's all be friends. At least for the next fifteen minutes." Crowley steps in, preventing further offensive retorts. "Dean, Moose. Nice to see you boys. Come on, I'm able to conjure up a bottle of absolutely sublime Bourbon, and since it is after seven in the morning, it's not too early for a glass of whisky. Let's get a drink and let the angels catch up, shall we?" Luckily the Winchesters are able to see reason and they follow Crowley to the small gazebo, leaving Balthazar alone with Joshua and Castiel.

"Let's get it over with." Grabbing Castiel's shoulders, pulling him close, Balthazar hugs Cas, not really ready to admit his own errors yet. Then again, there has been too many misunderstandings and underhanded negotiations, and it almost cost Balthazar his life. Not going to happen twice.

Bracing himself for a bit of grovelling, Balthazar puts his hand on Cas's shoulder. "I forgive you, Cas. You didn't do anything to me that I hadn't deserved." Not entirely true; a bit of stealing and a tiny conspiracy with the Winchesters don't justify murder. Anyway, Balthazar understands why Castiel was driven to act like he did. "I know now it was only to make up for our, erm, fallout, when you suggested to Naomi that she offered me to Crowley. I know you didn't know that she would threaten to kill me. You did nothing that wasn't done with the best of intentions. It did turn out better than any of us could have imagined," Balthazar admits. "I suppose I have you to thank for it. For Crowley. For falling in love for the first time."

"Unnatural idea if there ever was one," Joshua interrupts, blowing out a stream of air. "In love with a demon. How deeply you have fallen, Balthazar." He looks satisfied, despite the harsh words.

Ignoring Joshua's words, Castiel beams."Thank you, my friend." Castiel looks happy and relieved. "I still have much to atone for as do you, and it would please me if we can do it together." Castiel steps too close, invading Balthazar's personal space. "And don't listen to Joshua," Castiel whispers conspiratorially. "He likes Crowley, he just doesn't want to admit it. Crowley might be a demon, but at least he's as honest as they come, we all know that."

Joshua huffs, uncharacteristically derisive. "At least he works with us as the kings of Hell are supposed to. Providing redemption through torment so that the sinners' souls can earn their ascension to Heaven." It sounds like a lecture to Balthazar, and it probably is. A bit like Joshua telling him what his duties will be in the future, ruling the King of Hell as said king rules Hell and the souls there. Balthazar is still bound to Heaven, whether he likes it or not.

Joshua goes on. "It has been some time since we've had someone downstairs, understanding that we, Heaven and Hell, are doing each our part of the same job. I suppose-" Joshua hesitates. "I suppose that it doesn't hurt to have an angel overseeing that the King of Hell upholds his part of the deal. He tends to do that anyway, I know."

Yes, Joshua does. Everybody knows that Crowley never cheats when it comes to contracts, contrary to certain angels that Balthazar knows of. Joshua is just stating the obvious. If it's in a contract, Crowley honours it. Ignoring Joshua's bickering, Balthazar wants to know what happened to Naomi. He asks. "And the angel who thought she could cheat Crowley, what about her?" Balthazar crosses his arms. He's still angry at Naomi and absolutely without any desire to forgive her. He hopes that Joshua has punished her severely and not just slapped her hand and told her never to do anything like it again.

"Oh, I'm just a gardener," Joshua says; his standard excuse, pretending that he's powerless, which is about the greatest lie in the universe. "God's garden is vast, and I am but an old man. Lots of weed, and my knees..."

Vast, indeed. As vast as God wants it to be, which is... well, huge. Balthazar rolls his eyes."Right. And Naomi?"

"Currently mapping out the DNA of dandelions with a teaspoon," Joshua says trying to hide a less than beatific smile. "Of each flower, one at a time. Sisyphus had it easy in comparison — anyone with a garden would understand that. They tend to multiply, dandelions. Which is good. Yellow is such a merry colour." The old angel manages to look almost innocent. "I had Crowley help me come up with that one. Your husband-to-be really is so inventive, Balthazar. Should keep Naomi's entrepreneurial tendencies in check for a while. When she's done, there is always the thistles. Could take a while. Wouldn't risk her running off on her own. Didn't go so well last time she was left to her own devices, although her intentions were noble." Joshua pats Balthazar's hand. "But all is well that ends well, as they say, humans."

Balthazar's eyes stray to Crowley. Balthazar laughs, for no reason at all, a carefree, happy laughter. He's in love, he's alive, and he's got his friend back. Oh, and he's got revenge. Yes, everything is well. He has everything he ever wanted, almost. But since his last wish is going to be fulfilled within the next hour, there is no reason for further complaints.

Cas steps up to him. "I would like to stand with you if you wish. Our Father truly works in mysterious ways; your choice..." Castiel looks at Crowley and the two Winchesters. " _Our_ choices must make sense to him. I have never seen you happier, brother."

Balthazar makes a crooked smile. "If you allow me the honour when you and Dean... I understand that is how humans do it." Mysterious ways, indeed!

Castiel blushes. He is adorably innocent; despite everything, despite his power, despite his errors and the murders he committed. Castiel is still as clean as the sky on a sunny spring morning. "I can think of no one I would rather have at my side if Dean decides to..."

Balthazar clasps hands with Castiel, suddenly as formal as he. "You honour me with your presence, brother" Balthazar says, and means it. Thank Father that they are friends again, everything that has passed between them forgiven and forgotten.

Castiel beams brighter than a lighthouse on a dark winter night. Balthazar finds his smile beautiful.

They are interrupted when an elderly, rotund man is approaching them.

"Excuse me, Sirs!" he calls out as he walks down the narrow, flagstone-paved path. "You're the-" the man leafs through the leather-bound folder he's holding. "-the Crowley party? Fergus Rodric McLeod Crowley? I'm from the Domestic Partnership Registrations Office. I understand this is a matter of urgency? I've brought your approved Registration Form. So if you're ready to begin, the Registrations Office will be pleased to accommodate your wish for a proper marriage ceremony. Highly irregular, but no less pleasing, I must say."

"I'm Crowley. And I'm more than ready," Crowley says, stepping forward to guide the man to the small gazebo. "Eager, in fact." He turns to Balthazar for a second. "It's now or never, love. You can still manage to get away."

As if! Balthazar snorts arrogantly. "No."

Wild horses, rabid Hellhounds and the Host of Heaven combined could not drag Balthazar away from Crowley if they tried.

Finally gathered in the white gazebo, surrounded by trees, with birds twittering high up in the branches, they've reached the destination which a month ago seemed like a descent into Hell. Crowley hands Castiel the small box he brought with him from Tiffany's, not entirely pleased with the angel's participation. It pleases Balthazar, though, that Crowley accepts it without hesitation or complaints. Crowley digs into his pocket and finds another box, one he gives to Joshua. "For later. After the ceremony," Crowley instructs. Balthazar is curious, but the inquiry he is about to make is cut off by the marriage officiator.

"Let's begin. Fergus Rodric McLeod Crowley and Balthazar Obrao, you have chosen to share one another’s lives in an intimate and committed relationship of mutual caring, love and trust."

" _Obrao_?" Balthazar whispers. " _He who was reborn by choice_?" Balthazar raises an eyebrow. "Sounds good in Enochian. Considerably shorter. Obrao... I like it." Luckily, Crowley hasn't discovered Balthazar's alias from the time when he unsank the Titanic. That would have been awkward and extremely embarrassing.

"It's so... '90s, not to have a surname." Crowley smirks. "It makes human authorities suspicious if you don't."

"And we have to live in the world of humans. Right, Fergus."

"Call me that again, and I'll make you regret for a week that you did."

"Looking forward to it, Fergie," Balthazar teases, before he directs his attention to the marriage officiator who looks a bit bewildered. "Ignore him. Please commence. He's barely house-trained," Balthazar adds, looking at Crowley, knowing it will cost him later. He gives the man from the Registration Office an encouraging nod.

"Fergus Rodric McLeod Crowley and Balthazar Obrao, you have chosen to share one another’s lives in an intimate and committed relationship of mutual caring, love and trust," the officiator repeats, this time with the full attention of all attendees.

The ceremony is brief and to the point, not that Balthazar would really notice. He sees only Crowley, feels only the warmth of his hand in his. There is but little to do than to say _yes_ , and Balthazar does. Of course he does.

Castiel steps forward to present the rings, both matching the ring that Crowley used yesterday: platinum with one beautiful blue sapphire. "Like your eyes," Crowley whispers. "I like blue."

Balthazar sighs happily when Crowley slides the ring onto his finger. Balthazar knows the ceremony could have be different, a cold alliance made solely for selfish reasons. For self-preservation — to save his life. And now he's standing with Crowley's hand in his, his hand adorned with the ring that Crowley bought for him, bursting with love for his husband.

His husband.

He is married to Crowley, King of Hell, and it feels like heaven.

That Crowley feels the same is a given, for Balthazar is pulled into a kiss that lasts for a minute, which is by far too short. Crowley kisses like there is no tomorrow and Balthazar clings to him, trying to keep his grace in; a difficult job when one is close to exploding from love and happiness.

Castiel coughs politely. "I would like to offer my congratulations. It is my distinct opinion that sex is not appropriate before a married couple is alo-"

"Cas!" Dean sounds both amused and appalled at the same time. "Not so much with the preaching."

Sam and Joshua take the opportunity to congratulate them, Sam looking a little disapproving, Joshua happy. The man from the Domestic Partnership Registrations Office joins in, taking his leave immediately thereafter. Bureaucrats are busy at all hours. As he walks away, Joshua puts his hand on Crowley's shoulder. "We'll renegotiate the treaty later. We'll make sure that your sacrifices haven't been in vain," Joshua promises. The old angel actually looks as if he shares their joy. "I suppose now is the time?" he asks Crowley, holding up a fine silver box that Crowley gave him.

Crowley nods. "Celine Dion had camels and exotic birds at her Vegas wedding. There is no way in hell or any other places that I won't top that for my husband. Also, I find it appropriate to pay my debt to Castiel and Balthazar today. If you'd please, Joshua."

Still curious about the contents of the silver box, Balthazar watches as Joshua slowly opens the small container. A bright, golden light shoots out, spreading as the light turns into two; two into four; four into more.

Balthazar has stopped breathing. "It's... they're _souls_?" he whispers, finally able to take in some air. "Cas?"

Castiel's expression is a perfect copy of Balthazar's surprised, amazed face. "I... didn't know." He looks at Crowley. "How many?"

They watch as the souls rise towards the sky, little glittering suns of shimmering white and gold. It's beautiful, like a thousand sunrises.

"Ten thousand for Castiel the seraph. Twenty thousand for Balthazar, unharmed. I've paid my debt."

"Leave it to the King of the Crossroads to keep his promises and nothing more," Dean huffs. "Businessman to the hi-"

"And an additional hundred thousand souls to celebrate my marriage to Balthazar, angel of the Lord, now consort to the King of Hell," Crowley adds, very formal, glaring arrogantly at Dean Winchester. "No expense is too high for the pleasure of seeing my husband happy. You should learn from that, boy. If you ever find the guts to go there."

Dean blushes and can't stop himself from looking at Castiel. It is very entertaining, and Balthazar enjoys it all very much. And there is much to enjoy. Everything Crowley promised them and an extra hundred thousand souls freed from Hell, not least. The last few of the tiny golden fires disappear into the blue sky above Balthazar's upturned face. He is filled with a deep sense of satisfaction, seeing so many souls ascending to Heaven. The air vibrates with the joy of the redeemed. The display does indeed make Miss Dion's wedding look pathetic. More pathetic.

"Camels, pfft," Balthazar says, still watching the sky. It's easier to hide how touched he is that way. "What are those compared to a hundred and thirty thousand souls released into Heaven? Celine, darling, eat your rotten heart out." With his hand on Crowley's chest, right over his heart, Balthazar asks, "Do you think we've become better beings?"

"Going through what we've been through? Getting married? Falling in love?" As usual Crowley knows exactly what Balthazar thinks. He puts his hand on top of Balthazar's, stroking it softly.

"Yes." Balthazar nods, "All of it."

Crowley laughs. "Hell, no. The only difference is that before I cared only for me. Now I care for you as well. For _us_."

Balthazar glances at the Winchester boys and Castiel before he kisses Crowley on the lips. "So it won't bother you if we simply... poof?"

"You said to me that you wanted to try _everything_. Have you ever made love in an Aston Martin? On the motorway? On your wedding day?" Crowley's expression is downright wicked.

"Not that I know of." Balthazar's smile turns into a similarly wicked grin. Desecrating the pristine leather interior of their supercar while riding Crowley at top speed sounds delightfully dirty to him. "So... what are we waiting for?"

"Nothing." Crowley says. "We just got to the sexy part. Let's go."


End file.
